Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/194

182

A broken heart.—And there was one whose cheek Was flushed with fever—'twas a face that seemed Familiar to my memory,—'twas one Whom I had loved in youth. In days long past, How many glorious structures we had raised Upon Hope's sandy basis! Genius gave To him its golden treasures: he could pour His own impassioned soul upon the lyre; Or, with a painter's skill, create such shapes Of loveliness, they were more like the hues Of the rich evening shadows, than the work Of human touch. But he was wayward, wild; And hopes that in his heart's warm summer clime Flourished, were quickly withered in the cold And dull realities of life;...he was Too proud, too visionary for this world,