SHATTERED HOPES

This morn upon the birken tree The mavis carolled blithe and free; But—ah, his song was not for me! Each wild note of his glad refrain Pierced like an arrow thro’ my brain; I could have cursed him for his strain. I saw the sunshine and the flowers, Each proof of a Creator’s powers; Yet dull and hateful were the hours. I cannot weep—the fever dries The tears within my burning eyes— The past before my vision flies. Once more I feel his deep-drawn kiss; Once more my being thrills with bliss; Once more I melt with tenderness. I hear the trembling words that hung Deep fraught with passion on his tongue, Till heart and soul with pain are wrung. All nature smiles—and yet to-day In memory’s grave I’ve laid away My idol that has turned to clay.