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WHEN night was lifting, And dawn had crept under its shade, Amid cold clouds drifting Dead-white as a corpse outlaid, With a sudden scare I seemed to behold My Love in bare Hard lines unfold.

Yea, in a moment, An insight that would not die Killed her old endowment Of charm that had capped all nigh, Which vanished to none Like the gilt of a cloud, And showed her but one Of the common crowd.

She seemed but a sample Of earth’s poor average kind, Lit up by no ample Enrichments of mien or mind. I covered my eyes As to cover the thought, And unrecognize What the morn had taught.

O vision appalling When the one believed-in thing Is seen falling, falling, With all to which hope can cling. Off: it is not true; For it cannot be That the prize I drew Is a blank to me!

WEYMOUTH, 1869.