FACES IN THE FIRE
'Tis now a grave and gentle maid,
At her own beauty half afraid,
Shrinking, and willing to be stayed.
Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm,
When first I saw that fairy-form,
Her dark hair tossing in the storm.
And fast and free these pulses played,
When last I met that gentle maid—
When last her hand in mine was laid.
Those locks of jet are turned to gray,
And she is strange and far away
That might have been mine own to-day—
That might have been mine own, my dear.
Through many and many a happy year—
That might have sat beside me here.
Ay, changeless through the changing scene,
The ghostly whisper rings between,
The dark refrain of 'might have been.'