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Not on the first dream-haunted mood Of youth's impassioned solitude. It was Amenaïde's first sorrow;— To such there seemeth no to-morrow.

As yet she knew not how such tears Are half forgot in future years; How life effaces as it goes The keenest pang of earlier woes. How careless and how cold we grow, Dry as the dust we tread below; As if the grave its chillness threw, The grave—which all are hastening to! But she, the youthful mourner there, Was bowed beneath her first despair. The first,—ah! none can ever know That agony again—