ERE in this haunted corner, where First falls the light of each new morrow, A sculptured face, of beauty rare, Immutable, and still, and fair, Pillowed amid its billowy hair, Still keeps its sorrow.
I go and come; I wake and sleep; I weep and laugh, exult and languish, But still the lashes downward sweep, And though the closed eyes do not weep, The lips, with painful pressure, keep Their silent anguish.
And as in evening solitude I smile or sigh, as musing moves me, This type of constant womanhood, This eloquent, pale similitude Of suffering, shames my changing mood,— Its truth reproves me.
My sorrows seem but small and brief,— Soon softened into vague regretting; I find a balm in every leaf, Build ships on every wreck-strewn reef, Then blush before this marble Grief, Still unforgetting!
In time, all other woes grow old, All other hearts some solace borrow; The velvet leaves of spring unfold, The autumn beards the grain with gold; But my pale Peace, yet unconsoled, Still keeps her sorrow!
ERE in this haunted corner, where 
ERE in this haunted corner, where 