Desolate

I strain my worn-out sight across the sea; 
I hear the wan waves sobbing on the strand; 
My eyes grow weary of the sea and land, 
Of the wide deep, and the forsaken lea. 
Ah, love, return! ah, love, come back to me! — 
As well these ebbing waves I might command 
To turn and kiss the moist, deserted sand! 
The joy that was, is not, and cannot be. 

The salt shore, furrowed by the foam, smells sweet; 
Oh, blest for me, if it were now my lot, 
To make this shore my rest, and hear all strife 
Die out, like yon tide's faint receding beat: 
If he forgot so easily in life, 
I may in death forget that he forgot.