And the words I would not utter seem escaping from my soul.
Dost thou remember, sister, how in sunny youth we played
On the margin of yon streamlet in the orange branches' shade?
Or, when the evening twilight threw its veil o'er stream and wood,
And we saw the stars grow dizzy and tremble where they stood,
How we twined the pure white blossoms in the ringlets of our hair,
And wondered if the dew-drops would come to nestle there?
Hast thou forgotten, sister, life's bright, unclouded spring,
When thy thoughts were just as joyous as wild birds on the wing,
When young Clarence stood beside thee, and the words he dared to speak