192
THREE SUNSETS.
Who let the dream of bliss denied
Make havoc of our life and powers,
And pine, in solitary pride,
For peace that never shall be ours,
Because we will not work and wait
In trustful patience for our fate.
And so it chanced once more that she
Came by the old familiar spot;
The face he would have died to see
Bent o'er him, and he knew it not:
Too rapt in selfish grief to hear,
Even when happiness was near.
And pity filled her gentle breast
For him that would not stir nor speak;
The dying crimson of the west,
That faintly tinged his haggard cheek,
Fell on her as she stood, and shed
A glory round the patient head.
