And shall I then regain thee never?
My beautiful! And art thou flown?
Still in my ears resounds for ever
Thy every word, thy every tone.
As through the air, when morn is springing,
The wanderer peers in vain, to trace
The lark, that o'er him high is singing,
Hid in the azure depth of space;
So, love, through field and forest lonely
My sad eyes roam in quest of thee;
My songs are tuned to thee, thee only;
Oh, come, my own love, back to me!