A voice of gentle memories—a mien
Too tender for an angel’s, yet as fair, I ween.
Thou sparklest through my fears;
A hope which bloometh as an early flower,
Shines in the sun nor droops beneath the shower;
A holy star that glides at vesper hour
Into the dusk-hung sky—and, saintly, seems to lower!
In daylight and in dreams,
’Mid hopes that beckon and ’mid fears that frown,
Thou art the juice that every care can drown;