The poem
Like a lone Arab, old and blind, Some caravan had left behind, Who sits beside a ruin'd well, Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell; And now he hangs his ag{'e}d head aslant, And listens for a human sound--in vain! And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant, Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;-- Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, I sate upon the couch of camomile; And--whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance, Flitted across the idle brain, the while I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance, Turn'd my eye inward--thee, O genial Hope, Love's elder sister! thee did I behold Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, Lie lifeless at my feet! And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, And stood beside my seat; She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, As she was wont to do;-- Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath Woke just enough of life in death To make Hope die anew.