From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes,
Quenching thy soul’s thirst at the hidden urn
That, fill’d with waters of sweet memory, lies
In its own shrine.
Thou hast thy home!—there is no power in change
To reach that temple of the past; no sway,
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange,
To sweep the still transparent peace away
From its hush’d air!
And oh! that glorious image of the dead!