As memory brought my hours of agony
Again before my mind:—I mourned his doom;
I mourned my own: the sunny little room
In which, opress'd by sickness, now I lay,
Weeping for sorrows past, and woes to come,
Had been my own in childhood's early day.
Oh! could those years indeed so soon have passed away!
Past, as the waters of the running brook;
Fled, as the summer winds that fan the flowers!
All that remained, a word—a tone—a look,