Child of the narrow court! they are not ours!’
O’er the despondent sufferer bending low,
Till her fair tresses swept his throbbing brow,
With tender glistening eyes, and cheeks aglow
With joy and hope, she softly told him how,
Not very far away, the golden bees
Wooed the white clusters of the hawthorn trees.
She spoke of twittering birds, and raised her eyes,
Bright with the glory of poetic thought,
To the dark ceiling that shut out the skies,