Lies calm amid the storms that ’round it roll,
Indifferent to Fate or to what haven
By the terrific tempest it is driven.
The dahlias, leaning from the golden vase,
Peer pensively into her pallid face,
While the sweet songster o’er the oaken door
Looks through his grate and warbles “weep no more!”
——beauteous in her misery—