  THE place again— The wooded heights—the widening plain— The whispering pines—the dry-leaved oaks, too young To cast their dead dreams ere the new be sprung! What profits it Alone on this prone slope to sit Where thou didst press the heath,—and see how dun The landscape seems, lit only by the sun? Yet, ah! not vain To visit thy fair haunts again— To trace thy footsteps by the upturned stone, And conjure back thy looks, thy words, thy tone! Like music fine That simple seeming speech of thine Hath in it soft harmonics, only heard When from the memory fades the uttered word. And to mine eyes Undazzled by thyself, doth rise An image lovelier and more like to thee Than even thy bodily self which sight can see. Ah! The wind shakes The withered leaves, and Love awakes, And to the vacant landscape cries in vain: “Ah, heaven! to have her at my side again! Love Lies Bleeding. |
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