XXIV
All her tresses backward strayed
Look golden in the gleam,
But her wan lips and sunken cheek
And full eyes eloquently speak
Of sorrows gathering near,
Till those dark orbs o'erflowing fast
Are shadowed by her hand at last
To hide the streaming tear.
Oh! say not that her vivid dreams
Are but the shattered glass
Which but because more broken gleams
Move brightly in the grass.
Her spirit is the unfathomed lake
Whose face the sudden tempests break
To one tormented roar;
But as the wild winds sink in peace
All those disturbèd waves decrease
Till each far-down reflection is
As lifelike as before.
She thought when that confession crossed
Upon her dying mind,
'Twas sense and soul and memory lost,
Though feeling burned behind.
But that bright heaven has touched a chord
And that wide west has waked a word
