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to a stranger.
I noted thee, amid the crowd—
With them, but of them not;
Nor time nor distance can efface,
Or from my memory blot.
With them, but of them not;
Nor time nor distance can efface,
Or from my memory blot.
Thy sable robe, thy saddened brow,
Thy sweet, though pensive, smile,—
Manners of winning tenderness,
That spoke thee free from guile.
Thy sweet, though pensive, smile,—
Manners of winning tenderness,
That spoke thee free from guile.
Genius, proud genius, sat enthroned
Upon thy woman's brow;
I have thy picture in my mind,—
I'm gazing on it now.
Upon thy woman's brow;
I have thy picture in my mind,—
I'm gazing on it now.
There is a sympathy of soul,
That draws us to our kind;
'Tis not in words, or looks, or deeds,
'T is mind, embracing mind.
That draws us to our kind;
'Tis not in words, or looks, or deeds,
'T is mind, embracing mind.
A deeper sympathy is ours;
For sorrow's saddening sway
Has swept across our pathways both,
With many a chilling ray.
For sorrow's saddening sway
Has swept across our pathways both,
With many a chilling ray.
