Perchance ’twas she, thus changed; how could I tell?
And gone, as Arethusa once, beneath the deep,
Had sought her lover in his quiet sleep.
THE YEARS OF LOVE.
For Love there’s no oblivion. I have cherished
An idol beautiful, but in this hour,
Hopes that had bloomed for years have wholly perished,
And left me but the fragrance of the flower:
But be the hopes of love like blossoms blighted,