What lived upon her features, like the light

On yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;

But it is faded as the other must,

And she that was all beauty is all dust.

“Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine

And tell me is it cold? But she will twine

No wreath upon these temples—never, never!

For there she lieth like a streamless river

That stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me here,

If I be madly throbbing in the fear