THY PORTRAIT.
I gaze upon it day by day,
Until my eyes are filled with tears,
To think that thou art far away,
Afar from all that life endears;
I, whose sad thoughts so often stray
To thee, the loved of other years.
Until my eyes are filled with tears,
To think that thou art far away,
Afar from all that life endears;
I, whose sad thoughts so often stray
To thee, the loved of other years.
The beautiful is round me still,
But it is beautiful no more;
The breeze floats gently o'er the hill,
As if old feelings to restore;
I hear it, but it fails to fill
My bosom with the thoughts of yore.
But it is beautiful no more;
The breeze floats gently o'er the hill,
As if old feelings to restore;
I hear it, but it fails to fill
My bosom with the thoughts of yore.
The days that pass since thou hast gone,
I count as nothing: unto me
They seem but scentless flowers thrown
Beneath my footsteps heedlessly;
'No voice with sad regretful tone,
Laments that such their death should be.
I count as nothing: unto me
They seem but scentless flowers thrown
Beneath my footsteps heedlessly;
'No voice with sad regretful tone,
Laments that such their death should be.
