One's mourning is another's mirth;--
You wear your bright years like a crown,--
While mine, dead garlands, tangle down
In chains about my feet.

The breeze which wakes the folded flower
Sweeps dead leaves from the tree;--
So partial Time, as hour by hour
He tells the rapid years,--cheu!
Brings bloom and beauty still to you,
But leaves his blight with me.

The rain which calls the violet up
Out of the moistened mould
Shatters the wind-flower's fragile cup;--
For even Nature has her pets,
And, favoring the new, forgets
To love and spare the old.

The shower which makes the bud a rose
Beats off the lilac-bloom.
I am a lilac,--so life goes,--
A lilac that has outlived May;--
You are a blush-rose. Welladay!
I pass, and give you room!




THE ELEUSINIA.