Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/190

Rh

! little do those features wear The shade of grief, the soil of care; The hair is parted o'er a brow Open and white as mountain snow, And thence descends in many a ring, With sun and summer glistening. Yet something on that brow has wrought A moment's cast of passing thought; Musing of gentle dreams, like those Which tint the slumbers of the rose: Not love,—love is not yet with thee,— But just a glimpse what love may be: A memory of some last night's sigh, When flitting blush and drooping eye