Wet with the dew of burning tears;
And wandering words and looks confessed
That she, amid her wild unrest,
Was living o’er the by-gone years.
And thus with names she loved so well
Still lingering on her clay-cold lips,
Speaking affection’s fadeless spell,
She sunk beneath death’s dark eclipse.
This is a dream from which I start,
And wonder if it can be so—