THERE is an hour, a pensive hour; <br />(And oh! how dear its soothing pow'r!) <br />It is, when twilight spreads her veil, <br />And steals along the silent dale; <br />'Tis when the fading blossoms close, <br />When all is silence and repose; <br />Then memory wakes, and loves to mourn, <br />For days—that never shall return! <br /> <br />There is a strain, a plaintive strain, <br />The source of joy and yet of pain; <br />It is the song, whose dying measure, <br />Some friend belov'd has heard with pleasure; <br />Some friend—who ne'er again may hear, <br />The melting lay, to memory dear; <br />Ah! then, her magic spells restore, <br />Visions of blissful days no more! <br /> <br />There is a tear of sweet relief, <br />A tear—of rapture and of grief; <br />The feeling heart alone can know <br />What soft emotions bid it flow! <br />It is when memory charms the mind, <br />With tender images refin'd; <br />'Tis when her balmy spells restore, <br />Departed friends, and joys no more!<br /><br />Felicia Dorothea Hemans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/there-is-an-hour-a-pensive-hour/
