Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/86

Rh

A promise is a useless token, When neither dream it can be broken. Alas! vows are his after sign!— We prop the tree in its decline— The ghosts that haunt a parting hour, With all of grief, and nought of power; A chain half sunder'd in the making,— The plighted vow's already breaking. From such dreams all too soon we wake; For like the moonlight on the lake, One passing cloud, one waving bough— The silver light, what is it now? —Said I not, that young prince was one Who wearied when the goal was won; To whom the charm of change was all That bound his heart in woman's thrall?