An answering pressure to thine own it gave.
I did not mark thy pulse was wildly beating;
How could I think from hopeless love to save?
And till I met this eve thy look so thrilling,
My spirit had not been by sorrow stirred;
But now with tears my heavy eyes are filling,
Tears, for the hopes which I this hour have heard.
For all the dreams thy soul so long hath cherished,
’Tis mine to bid them vanish at a sound,
—Would, rather, that my own high hopes had perished!