Thy trusted hath left thee, deserted, alone,
To the rains and the ivy, sad, beautiful one!
Had thy heart been as true—ah, no! never my tongue
May add gall to the grief that thy spirit hath wrung;
'Tis enough that I gaze on thee here as thou art,
On the wreck of thy hope, in thy ruin of heart,
Who art drifting right on to that desolate shore
Where the storm of thy sorrow shall chase thee no more.
As I slept, o'er my spirit strange terrors there came,
Wrought with drapery of midnight, in crimson and flame,