But the glory that beamed 'neath thy lashes is gone,
There is woe in thy mien, there is grief in thy tone,
And the beauty that fed on those sweet lips of thine
Has died with the lustre that made it divine.
Where the dim-whispered sounds that gave ear to our vows
Were the audible steppings of God in the boughs;
By the beaming of stars through the tremulous vine,
Thou didst pledge through the rolling of years to be mine!
Let oblivion steal from my bosom that hour—
May the frosts of forgetfulness wither that bower;