Thou dost bend o’er it lovingly, and strive
To answer in a cadence clear and sweet
As springs first whispers! In the valleys now
The flowers have faded, and the singing-birds
Greet thee no longer when thou wanderest forth
Through the dim forest; and yet thou dost smile,
And skip as lightly o’er the withered grass,
As if thou hadst not decked thee in the robes
That thy dead sister’s wore in festal hours!