Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/135

 a light thought,

By coldness taught;

A foolish fancy—that betokeneth nought.

many an eye

Asks wond'ringly,

Where is their wonted gladness fled—and why?

is it gone,

Thou blessed one!

Flown o'er those hills—beyond those forests flown.

tares—

I gather'd cares,

And all the noisome weeds the fetid morass bears.

earth whirls on:

I stand alone,

Stretch out my hand in-vain—and vainly grieve and groan.