As one might love a dream; a phantom-fair
Of something exquisitely strange and rare, 25
Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,
Yet no one claimed—as oft, in dewy glades
The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,
Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;—
The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. 30
’Tis vain to say—her worst of grief is only
The common lot, which all the world have known;
To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,