A LIFE-HISTORY,—BRIEFLY TOLD.
I.
In the saddening light of the Autumn stars,
Half hidden behind those lattice-bars,—
I mark the flush of her ringlets bright
Gleam faintly forth on the misty night;
II.
Her face is pale, and I barely see
That her looks are bended mournfully
On what, perchance, is the image of One,
Who, dying,—left her hopes undone!
III.
Poor girl! she had given her best, her all,—
And now her heart like a funeral pall
Holds only a thought of the silent dead,
Of the grace that is lost, and the love that's fled.
