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THE IMPROVISATRICE.
To part awhile from that best light,
Those eyes which fixed his every look.
Just press again his native shore,
And then he would that shore resign
For her dear sake, who was to him
His household-god!—his spirit's shrine!
He came not! Then the heart's decay
Wasted her silently away:—
A sweet fount, which the mid-day sun
Has all too hotly looked upon!
It is most sad to watch the fall
Of autumn leaves!—but worst of all
It is to watch the flower of spring
Faded in its fresh blossoming!
