Evening will come, but will not bring again,
The song—the tale—the dance—the festal train.
I can but bid thee to my lonely room,
Where in fond dreams I pass my blighted youth.
Musing on vanished loveliness and bloom,
Man's dauntless courage, woman's changeless truth,
And scenes of joyous glee, or tranquil rest,
Shared with the early-lost—the bright—the blest.
Yet chide me not—mine is no impious grief,
Meekly I pray for Heaven's supporting grace.