Wearing one little band of gold,—
The only trace of youth's bright dream:
And yet o'er every mark of care,
In every wrinkle's mystic line,
I fancied jewels gleaming there
That wore a beauty all divine!
Another hand my fingers pressed—
'Twas like the lily dipped in snow;
Yet still it gave a wild unrest—
A weariness that none should know.