H. F. S.

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The Ideal

(To H. S.)

I saw her once--O taunting Destiny!
The paths of life then drew our steps apart;
Yet still that swift and softly loosened dart
Lies quiv'ring in my breast, and I must be
A gazer on the glass of Memory,
A silent watcher o'er my wounded heart--
How oft from dreams of liberty I start
And wake!--alas! the chain still fetters me.

Life gave its sweetest gift--ah! wherefore weep?
A cruel boon perchance; yet in my mind
The cold perfections of her beauty keep
A loveliness that words can never bind--
The seed was sown; and now my thoughts do reap
A harvest where no chaff is left behind.