And not a star is visible in heaven,
Hold sweet communion with thy soul.
My boy!
Thou wast most beautiful. I never looked
On thee but with a heart of pride. Thy curls
Fell o’er a brow of angel-loveliness,
And thy dark eyes, dark as the midnight cloud,
And soft as twilight waters, flashed and glowed
In strange, wild beauty, yet thy tears were far
More frequent than thy smiles—thy wail of pain