That soon would burst to glorious life within
Our spirit’s garden. The poor fragile bud
Is now all pale and withered, and the hope
Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast
Forever forth from thine.
They tell me, too,
My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!
There is no more a spirit-fire within
To light it with the olden glow. Life’s dreams
And visions all have died within my soul,