Anonymous

WHERE mourn the birds, or where the green young boughs

Are gently moving in the summer air,

Or the clear water as it bubbling flows

Is heard from flowery banks, surpassing fair:

There while I sit with pensive Love, and write

Of her, who lost to earth, yet lives on high,

I pause, and listen if I hear aright

From so far, any answer to my sigh:—

Yes! ’tis that well-known voice that fills mine ear,

And says, ‘Why waste the life which dear I deemed?

Why flows unceasingly that bitter tear?

For me weep not—I, when Death’s blow was given,

Immortal grew; and when to you they seemed

For ever closed, these eyes awoke in Heaven.’