Lilian. Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials,—strew them o’er my couch
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring,
All flush’d with violets and anemones.
Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch’d so tenderly,
As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness! I know