And sorrow's mantle o'er my spirit stealing,
Wrapped age within, and cast youth idly by.
I may be young, but, with my blighted spirit,
My clouded heart, and weary head and brain,
I feel, I know I never can inherit
A careless brow, and cheerful mien again.
Then do not scorn me that I have not power
To show a brow where shadows may not come,
For, were your heart like mine, a blighted flower,
You would not wonder I feel old, while young.