Discerning its abode so fair,
So delicate with all of grace,
I deem thine eyes in truth declare
The inherent soul's abiding-place.

But oh! 'tis harder of belief
To chink, illumined with thy smile,
That thou art made a child of grief,
A waif our careless hours exile.

Yet such thou art. Thy spirit sighs
For vanished heavens that could not last—
A watcher of unchanging skies,
In lands and seasons of die past,

Where Memory, with tireless sight,
Seeks upon unforgotten ways
Her visions holy with the light
Of irrecoverable days.