Mysteriously, strangely fair,
Like some clear star high-hung in heaven
And sweet as summer roses are,—
One dear face hovers o’er the spot,
Which knew her once and knows her not;
And still from out the deathly shadows,
Looks forth, beloved and unforgot.
All vain are beauty, worth, and wit,
The hours come, the hours flit;
Time’s wheel inexorably turneth,