Into the blessed wreath
Of household-charities no longer bound,
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground.
“So fade, fade on! Thy gift of love shall cling
A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain—
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing,
All sensitive to pain!
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall
O’er thy mind’s world, a daily darkening pall.
Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued