rove’s T 0 KE N - F L 0 WE R S'. 31 
Would weave a spell around that heart 
In some unguarded hour ; 
I would not that some pitying one 
Should hear my frequent sigh: 
The deer that bears his death wound turns 
In loneliness to die. 
My heart is with its early dream, 
I never can forget 
The fantasy whose faded light 
Illumes my spirit yet; 
The setting sun may sink in clouds 
Beneath the glowing main, 
While long upon heaven’s darkening brow 
Those clouds his light retain. 
My heart is with its early dream, 
Yet there are moments still, 
When, like a pulse within my soul, 
I feel joy’s transient thrill; 
For never to a listless ear 
Was friendship’s language spoken, 
The blast that rends the wind-god’s harp 
May leave one string unbroken. 
