It is too late to call thee now,
⁠I will not nurse that dream again;
For every joy that lit my brow
⁠Would bring its after-storm of pain.

Besides the mist is half withdrawn,
⁠The barren mountain-side lies bare,
And sunshine and awaking morn
⁠Paint no more golden visions there.

Yet ever in my grateful breast
⁠Thy darling shade shall cherished be;
For God alone doth know how blessed
⁠My early years have been in thee!

April 1840.