But my FIRST is all that poor Clara said.
“Daughter! thy cheek hath grown pale and thin—
Is thy spirit pure and chastened within?
Gone from thy voice is its ancient mirth?
Are thy sighs for Heaven? Thy tears for earth?”
For earth are her sighs, yet poor Clara knows
My SECOND no more than the spring’s first rose!
Why doth he tremble, that holy man,
At eye so sad, and at cheek so wan?
Less burning the tears, less bitter the sighs