Doth this rapt, earnest, mournful face resemble
In all its shaded lineaments thine own?
Did the soft love-vow on that proud lip tremble —
Yet fear to deepen to a tenderer tone?
And the rare love that haunts thy magic numbers —
Didst thou not hope to make such worship thine?
The passionate paleness on thy cheek that slumbers,
Tells that thy heart was but Love’s lonely shrine!
The love of Genius!—with its dream and vision —
Its hopes and fears—vainest of earthly things.