David Given Schwarm

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,

And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,

“Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;

Set, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,

Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies

A tear some Dream has loosen’d from his brain.”

Lost Angel of ruin’d Paradise!

She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain

She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.