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pass’d away.


I love thee as I love the tone of some soft-breathing flute
Whose soul is wak’d for me alone, when all beside is mute.

I love thee as I love the first young violet of the spring;
Or the pale lily, April-nurs’d, ro scented blossoming.
I love thee, as I love the full, clear gushings of the song,
Which lonely–sad–and beautiful–at night-fall floats along,
Pour’d by the bul-bul forth to greet the hours of rest and dew;
When melody and moonlight meet to blend their charm, and hue.


I love thee, as the glad bird loves the freedom of its wing,
On which delightedly it moves in wildest wandering.

I love thee as I love the swell, and hush, of some low strain,
Which bringeth, by its gentle spell, the past to life again.
Such is the feeling which from thee nought earthly can allure:
‘Tis ever link’d to all I see of gifted–high–and pure!