I saw her there, a household dove,
In consummated peace of love,
And sweeter joy and saintlier grace
Breathed o’er the beauty of her face.”
“That vision died, in drops of woe,
In blotting drops, dissolving slow:
Now, toiling day and sorrowing night,
Another vision fills my sight.
A cold mound in the winter snow;
A colder heart at rest below;