THOMAS HOOD
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone With the last leaves for a love-rosary, Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily. Like a dim picture of the drowned pa^t In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray.
O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair! She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care; There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower, and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to im ite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloor^ Of conscious checks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
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