Where must the lone one turn or flee!—
Not unto thee—oh! not to thee!
A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE.
Dreamer! and wouldst thou know
If love goes with us to the viewless bourne?
Wouldst thou bear hence th’ unfathom’d source of woe
In thy heart’s lonely urn?
What hath it been to thee,
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast?
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea,