Page:Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse.pdf/138

  Darkness shades the fickle beam, Dims the beauty, dries the stream, Breaks the spell that blinds the eyes, And with the dream, the dreamer dies.

 

THERE is a plant that in its cell, All trembling seems to stand, And bend its stalk, and fold its leaves, From each approaching hand.

And thus there is a conscious nerve, Within the human breast, That from the rash or careless hand, Shrinks, and retires—distrest.

The pressure rude, the touch severe, Will raise within the mind, A nameless thrill, a secret tear, A torture undefin'd. 