If the love of the heart is blighted, it buddeth not again:
If that pleasant song is forgotten, it is to be learnt no more:
Yet often will thought look back, and weep over early affection;
And the dim notes of that pleasant song will be heard as a reproachful spirit,
Moaning in Æolian strains over the desert of the heart,
Where the hot siroccos of the world have withered its one oasis.
