Alas, poor weed! The careless tide Has left thee with his lightest foam;
And now a desert drear and wide Divides thee from thy wished-for home.
His flow may bear thee back once more,
But canst thou live thy life of yore?
Alas, I, too, am left awhile By her I love, in lightest play!
On distant loves I see her smile, I hear her laughter far away.
Her heart may turn to me again,
But can my heart forget the pain?