  Hope died to-day, and I’m thinking Of a time that never can be; And my thoughts grow strangely tender In asking and praying for thee. Thou’st turned away from my pleading The light of thy starry eyes, That rival the purest beaming Of the bluest of summer skies. Sweet eyes, that sometimes kindled With love-light when I was nigh— A wistful and tender yearning That mem’ry recalls with a sigh. Thy voice, so low and so thrilling, And soft as the summer wind That plays o’er the sunlit fountains, Entrancing both heart and mind. Thy face, as pure as an angel’s, Half veiled by thy golden hair, Star-gemmed with God-like meekness, So kindly, so wondrous fair! In vain, oh, heart, are thy dreamings! The flowers lie dead on the lea; The sun ’s gone down in the shadows That darken the dreary sea. The winds moan low o’er the hilltops, The waves sob along the dim shore; And night gathers fast in the valley— Will the day return nevermore? |
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