Since she, who bore the blush of May,
Down towards the dark December
Pass'd like the thorn-tree's bloom away,
A pale, reluctant ember.
BLIND LOUISE.
She knew that she was growing blind—
Forsaw the dreary night
That soon would fall, without a star,
Upon her fading sight:
Yet never did she make complaint,
But pray'd each day might bring
A beauty to her waning eyes—
The loveliness of Spring!
She dreaded that eclipse which might
Perpetually inclose
Sad memories of a leafless world—
A spectral realm of snows.
She'd rather that the verdure left
An evergreen to shine
Within her heart, as summer leaves
Its memory on the pine.
She had her wish: for when the sun
O'erhung his eastern towers,
And shed his benediction on
A world of May-time flowers—
We found her seated, as of old,
In her accustom'd place,
A midnight in her sightless eyes,
And morn upon her face!
A BLIGHTED MAY.
Call not this the month of roses—
There are none to bud and bloom;
Morning light, alas! discloses
But the winter of the tomb.
All that should have deck'd a bridal
Rest upon the bier—how idle!
Dying in their own perfume.