The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breath
Of even—all shall wither and decay,
Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath
The touch of morn—or bubbles of rich dyes
That break and vanish in the aching eyes."
And she, the lonely widow,
XXI.
And she, the lonely widow,
They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shed
Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pour