Ah, child, thou art but half thy darling mother's;
        Hers couldst thou wholly be,
My light in thee would outglow all in others;
        She would relive to me.
But n***ard Nature's trick of birth
        Bars, lest she overjoy,
Renewal of the loved on earth
        Save with alloy.

The Dame has no regard, alas, my maiden,
        For love and loss like mine -
No sympathy with mind-sight memory-laden;
        Only with fickle eyne.
To her mechanic artistry
        My dreams are all unknown,
And why I wish that thou couldst be
        But One's alone!