Serene she sits before the hearth's bright gold, Her withered cheeks transfigured with the glow, And, pondering the days of long ago, The scroll of memory her eyes behold. Unto her heart it seems, now she is old, That Youth is come again, as if the snow Of years had vanished leaving her to know The Spring, and see its loveliness unfold. The wreath of age rests lightly on the brow Where once the bridal roses breathed above Her girlish rapture in the fragrant air; She hears celestial voices singing now, And back from out the dark her absent Love Returning, smiles to make her dream more fair. |