And I am sad and lone and desolate;
And yet at times, when I behold thee near,
A something like the dear old feeling stirs
Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb
Of withered memories one pale, pale rose,
To bloom a moment there, and cast around
Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon
It vanishes away, as if it were
A mockery, the spectre of a flower;
I quell my struggling sighs and wear a smile;