Like golden sand in some dark river’s wave,
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep,
So jealously!—a thing o’er which to shed,
When stars alone beheld the drooping head,
Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden’d with the excess
Of our strange nature’s quivering happiness.
But, oh! sweet friend! we dream not of love’s might
Till death has robed with soft and solemn light
The image we enshrine! Before that hour,
We have but glimpses of the o’ermastering power