Thy brow is girt, thy robe with gems inwove;
    And palaces of frost-work, on the eye,
    Flash out, and gleam in every gorgeous dye,
The pencil, dipped in glorious things above,
    Can bring to earth. Oh, thou art passing fair!
But cold and cheerless as the heart of death,
Without one warm, free pulse, one softening breath,
    One soothing whisper for the ear of Care.
Fortune too has her Winter. In the Spring,
    We watch the bud of promise; and the flower
    Looks out upon us at the Summer hour;
And Autumn days the blessed harvest bring;
    Then comes the reign of jewels rare, and gold,
    When brows flash light, but hearts grow strangely cold.