A ring of triumph in her fresh young voice;
For she, poor child, was in her life’s glad morn,
And the soft sunshine made her heart rejoice.
‘Wert thou not longing for the Spring?’ she said;
But the pale sufferer sadly shook his head,
And gazed with sunken eyes upon her face,
Till its pure beauty filled his soul with peace,
Then smoothed her locks, and in a fond embrace,
Clasping her slender form, he whispered: ‘Cease
To sing the praises of the young Spring flowers;