Crushing her lilies into flowery lace;
Then sighs and starts, even as though from fright.
Then fleets before her eyes the happy past;
She turns from it with petulant disdain,
And tries to read the future,—but in vain.
Blank are its pages from the first to last.
She hears faint music, smiles, and leaves the room
Just as one rosebud more bursts into bloom.