For there was not the smallest thing
That was admired by thee,
To which my spirit does not cling
Watchfully, tenderly.
I sit beneath the evening sky,
And look upon the moon,
And the fitful breeze comes flutt'ring by,
With a low and hollow tune;
And I see our beacon star come up,
And rise above the trees,
And the dew is in the Iris' cup,
But what to me are these?
I know thou wilt not come again,
As was thy wont of old;
And I press my burning brow in pain,
And wish the night were told:
For the moonlight teems with memory,
And the stars burn on my sight;
And every thing doth talk of thee,
In the stillness of the night.
In dreams I sometimes see thy face,
But nothing kind is there;
I meet thy mute, forgetful gaze,
With still but deep despair.
The sunliglit is too bright for me,
And pleasant days seem long;
Laughter is but a mockery,
And the voice of happy song.
I do not weep, but crush my heart,
That I may seem to be
Unwounded by the poison dart
That was prepared for me.
My spirit walks the earth apart,
Weary and alone,
