When thy distrust had bowed to dust
Her bosom’s modest pride,
Ere like a flower, beneath the shower
Too rude, she meekly died.
’Twill whisper soft, “Beloved, how oft
Thy brow grows dark and stern;
I know not why, yet in thy eye
Strange coldness I discern;
A heavy blight, the spirit’s night,
Falls darkly on my soul;