[Written for the Sentinel.]


After the storm had passed, I raised mine eyesTo view the wreck. Here, every hard-won prizeLay shattered; there, my fallen idol lay,Mud-trampled. All my love-lit blissful dayHad drooped to gloaming, under lowering skies.

Broken my rose-heaped altar, hope seemed dead,And that dream-goddess,—now with uncrowned head,—That I named love, lay dying; everywhereWas ruin piled on ruin; grim despairAbove the scene its sable pinions spread.

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