The girl who rears a sickly plant, Or cherishes a wounded dove, The watchfulness of love! Time must have changed that fair young brow, Time might have changed that spotless heart ; Years might have brought deceit,—but now In love's confiding dawn we part ! Ere pain and grief had sown decay, My babe is cradled in the tomb, — Like some fair blossom torn away In all its purest bloom. |