Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/314

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But oh, how alter'd to herself! She felt That bird-like pining for some gentle home To which affection might attach itself, That weariness which hath but outward part In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill Which makes life taste the bitterness of death.

And he she loved so well,—what opiate Lull'd consciousness into its selfish sleep?— He said he loved her not; that never vow Or passionate pleading won her soul for him; And that he guess'd not her deep tenderness.

Are words, then, only false? are there no looks, Mute but most eloquent; no gentle cares That win so much upon the fair weak things