Ah, Mary, thou art far away,

And never dost thou think of me,

But unto thee my visions fly

Like birds across the sea.

I loved thee once with such a love

As manhood only knows and feels,

Less shown by actions and by words

Than what the eye reveals.

Within the warm and sunny South

Thy form is folded like a rose,

While I, in Northern realms afar,

Am wrapt in wintry snows.

Perhaps a husband’s arms enclose

The treasure I’d have died to win,

So that desire for thy sweet face

Is very like a sin.

But I’ll not think it—let me dream—

Since dreams alone such bliss bestow—

That, ere we meet in climes above,

We yet may meet below.

And I again may feel a thrill

Of rapture as I sit and gaze

Into thine eye’s delicious depth

Till all my heart’s ablaze.

And I can hear thy tuneful voice,

With melody almost divine,

Sing the sweet songs I joyed to hear

In days of auld lang syne.

But all in vain I strike my lyre,

In vain my burning thoughts unfold,

For, though my heart is warm with love,

My hands are numb with cold.