More present gloom from all the past endears.
In time, their light and beauty o’er me stealing,
Softened despair to grief; and in its dew
My withered heart put forth one bud of feeling.
I dared not hope its life:—fierce tempests blew
From the cold east of Youth in day’s decline,
And shook its tender petals:—still it grew!
It grew and blossomed to a hope divine:—
I might be like her in her nature’s worth;
I might live for her though she was not mine!