Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/43

32

Of blood; its stain is on her tangled hair, Which shroud-like hides the neck that else were bare. Around that neck there is a fragile chain, And memory's flood comes rushing o'er her brain: 's gift,—its slight gold links are broken,— So are the vows of which it was the token. Who has not loathed that worst, that waking hour, When grief and consciousness assert their power; When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again; Then know 'tis not illusion of the night, And sicken at the cold and early light? How ever shall we pass the weary day, When thus we shudder at its opening ray? She gazed upon the glass, then glanced around, In wonder at the contrast which she found.