141
CHORIAMBICS.
Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely,
we thought, with love?
What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from
the light above?
What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands
that were raised to wave,
Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the
sunless grave?
Ah, thy luminous eyes! once was their light fed with the
fire of day;
Now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush them
and hide away.
