Littell's Living Age/Volume 134/Issue 1733/Regained

Like the notes that stir and die
When a harp-string snaps in twain;
Like a fading sunset-sky
After driving wind and rain;
Like a sound within a shell,
Like an odor on the air,
Like an echo in a dell,
Like a star, remote and fair,
O, my child, thou art to me!
And thy soul is linked to mine,
As the pale moon draws the sea
Or the sun lifts up the vine.

In the passion of my tears,
In the blindness of my grief,
Through the melancholy years
I eschewed the sweet relief;
And I stretched my yearning hands
Through the dark, to clasp thee near, —
But to bind me in the bands
Of an ever-haunting fear.
I smiled on those beside me,
And deemed I did thee wrong,
And dreamt thou mightst deride me
For sharing joy or song.

Now, thy face comes back to me,
All free from tear or stain:
A brighter image of thyself,
Triumphant over pain.
I sought it not, for heedless,
I nursed my own despair;
And so I hold it likeness
Of reality, most fair:
No picture could unfold it
To any stranger's eye;
'Tis like a starlet shining
Within a winter sky.