Whene’er I hear thy name.
Yet ’tis no love-thought,—no impassioned dream
Of wild unrest
Quickening my pulses when with earnest beam
Thine eyes upon me rest.
But something deeper, holier far than this,—
A mournful thought
Of all the sorrow and the loneliness
With which thy life is fraught,—
Of thy great, noble heart, so rudely torn