Silence now reigns in the corridors wide, br The stately rooms of that mansion of pride; br The music is hushed, the revellers gone, br The glitt’ring ball-room deserted and lone,— br Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall, br O’ershadow the house—’tis after the ball. br br Yet a light still gleams in a distant room, br Where sits a girl in her “first season’s bloom;” br Look at her closely, is she not fair, br With exquisite features, rich silken hair br And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes br Of one in the world’s ways still unwise. br br The wreath late carefully placed on her brow br She has flung on a distant foot-stool now; br The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet, br Lie crushed and withering at her feet; br Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall— br She seems so weary after the ball! br br Ah, more than weary! How still and white, br With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight: br A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair, br One which it never before did wear, br And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears, br Telling of secret misgivings and fears. br br Say, what is it all? Why, some April care, br Or some childish trifle, baseless as air; br For the griefs that call forth girlhood’s tears br Would but win a smile in maturer years, br When the heart has learned, ’mid pain and strife, br Far sterner lessons from the book of life.