They told me of her history. Her love Was a neglected flame, which had consumed The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught With bitterness is unrequited love! To know that we have cast life's hope away On a vain shadow! Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep, As a woman's love should be, All tenderness and silence, only known By the soft meaning of a downcast eye, Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts; A sigh, scarce heard; a blush, scarce visible, Alone may give it utterance. Love is A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart, When felt as only woman love can feel! Pure as the snow-fall, when its latest shower Sinks on spring-flowers; deep as a cave-locked fountain; And changeless as the cypress's green leaves, And like them, sad! She nourished Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed A passion unconfessed, till he she loved Was wedded to another. Then she grew Moody and melancholy; one alone Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,— Her gentle sister; but that sister died, And the unhappy girl was left alone, A maniac. She would wander far, and shunned Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her Was as a home.
