Her sky that blushes with the morn of life;
Far on the inner shrine of Memory’s fane,
Lie the cold ashes of her “wasted heart,”
By burning sighs that sweep the darkened soul,
By lava-drops wrung from a fevered brain,
Or e’en the breath of God to be rekindled
Never—no “never more!”
——
And thus it is that woman’s sacrifice
Upon the altar of existence is