Pass'd swiftly o'er the pale stern face,
And the high white forehead dyed,
I heard the roll of carriage wheels,
Unthinkingly raised my eyes,
One glance flashed out beneatt thosee Brows,
Like lightening across the skies.

Shudder not dear, 'tis he who grieves,
Not I in my lonely life,
I have a calm bright future now,
He? well, he has gold and strife,
They say that oft by the heaving lake,
He wanders about alone,
Waves that dash on the sandy beach,
Answer his throbbing heart's moan.

Once or twice has been heard a name
As if wrung with torturous pain,
From lips to sacred silence sworn,
Told only to storms and rain.
He leaves the light of gilded halls,
To clasp in the midnight air,
Some flowers that faded years ago,
One lock of a girl's dark hair.

Ask me not with those pleading eyes,
If I dream about him yet;
Is anything colder to your touch,
Than ashes with rain-drops wet?
What is harder to kindle up,