For I felt that I was a thing apart,
There was none to love me so;
And the one for whom my soul founts start
Is froward and cold, you know.
Can you think, sweet Fanny, who may it be
That my thoughts will dwell on so heavily?
I sometimes dream of a happier lot,
Of a heart that is all my own,—
Of a quiet hearth, and a vine-clad cot,
Where peace may dwell alone,—