Page:Preludes, Meynell, 1875.djvu/42

22 Oh, hush; oh, hush! Thy tears my words are steeping.

Oh, hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping?

Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping?

Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her.

Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter

That breaks thy heart; the one that wrote, forget her.

The one that now thy faded features guesses,

With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses,

With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses.