And thou art dead, as young and fair 
As aught of mortal birth; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 
Too soon return'd to Earth! 
Though earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 
Nor gaze upon the spot; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
So I behold them not: 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 
Like common earth can rot; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'T is Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 
As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past, 
And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
Nor falsehood disavow: 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours; 
The worst can be but mine: 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 
Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep; 
Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away, 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
Must fall the earliest prey; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 
The leaves must drop away: 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
Than see it pluck'd to day; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 
To see thy beauties fade; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 
Had worn a deeper shade. 
The day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
And thou wert lovely to the last; 
Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 
My tears might well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 
One vigil o'er thy bed; 
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
Uphold thy drooping head; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 
Though thou hast left me free 
The loveliest things that still remain 
Than thus remember thee! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 
Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its living years.

Do you love to walk at the blush of dawn,
Where the grim rock frowns o'er the joyous sea?
Do you love to ride o'er the dewy lawn,
Where the deer springs by in its reckless glee?
Or to view the hill ere its veil be drawn,
Enrobed in its cloudy drapery?

Do you love the fir-groves' sombre shade,
When noon her fiercest radiance flings;
And to drink the pleasant murmur made
By the young Zephyrs' purple wings?
Or on the brooklet's margin laid,
To watch its bright meanderings?

Do you love the hour of Nature's rest,
The sun-set of the summer day,
When each tiny cloud of the gorgeous west
Is melting in that sun's last ray;
And earth too looks her loveliest,
As anxious to persuade his stay?

And do you love, the best of all,
The deep and pulseless hush of night?
To list the voice of the waterfall,
That dimly glimmers into sight;
And to view the vast sky's shadowy pall,
Bedropped with all its gems of light?

Oh, lov'st thou these?— then earth to thee
Is not of all her joy bereft;
And whatsoe'er thy grief may be,
Her purest, holiest charm is left:
Thou still hast Nature's sympathy,
Though every other tie be cleft.

And be it so!— how merciful
Is the great Lord of earth and sky,
To leave us still such flowers to cull
From the dark fields of destiny!
Else life would prove a thing so full
Of pain—the wish might rise to die.