Nor blur with furrows that little brow.
II.
Yes, as I thought. 'Tis the old, old tale:
He loves you; dreams of you night and day;
With hope he brightens, with dread turns pale,—
Truths, dear sister, or babblings gray.
III.
Love lives forever, if heart-born, real;
But fades like the roses I've now just clipped,
When told by one who your peace would steal,