Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/314



LOVE.

prest her slight hand to her brow, or pain Or bitter thoughts were passing there. The room Had no light but that from the fireside, Which showed, then hid her face. How very pale It looked, when over it the glimmer shone! Is not the rose companion of the spring? Then wherefore has the red-leaved flower forgotten Her cheek? The tears stood in her large dark eyes— Her beautiful dark eyes—like hyacinth stars, When shines their shadowy glory through the dew That summer nights have wept:—she felt them not, Her heart was far away! Her fragile form,