George Crabbe (1754–1832)

YES, I behold again the place,

The seat of joy, the source of pain;

It brings in view the form and face

That I must never see again.

The night bird’s song that sweetly floats

On this soft gloom—this balmy air,

Brings to the mind her sweeter notes

That I again must never hear.

Lo! yonder shines that window’s light;

My guide, my token, heretofore;

And now again it shines as bright,

When those dear eyes can shine no more.

Then hurry from this place away!

It gives not now the bliss it gave;

For Death has made its charm his prey,

And joy is buried in her grave.