And thy tresses falling over, like the amber on the pearl—
Oh! true, it is a lightsome thing, to love thee living, girl:
But when the brow is blighted, like a star at morning tide,
And faded is the crimson blush upon the cheek beside:
It is to love as seldom love, the brightest and the best,
When our love lies like a dew upon the one that is at rest,
Because of hopes that fallen are changing to despair,
And the heart is always dreaming on the ruin that is there.
Oh, true! ’tis weary, weary, to be gazing over thee,
And the light of thy pure vision breaketh never upon me!