There is a gallery in every mind,
A mental Louvre full of empty frames;
We strive to fill them with desires and aims,
Or try within their void some form to find.

Sometimes a face appears, but half defined,
Greeting us sadly, and its look proclaims
A wish fulfilled; while still another names
That fortune to our secret hopes was kind.

Visions of love and friendship come and go,
Sad frames, alas! unfulfilled, for time remain;
Others, unheeded once, hold faces new,
Welcome in tenderness or sad in woe,
And so continue through this life of pain,
Till death blurs every picture from our view.