  Why do I ever dream of thee? In vain are thy dreamings, O memory; Why sit in sorrow—others are gay— Restless and grieving, as day follows day? Bright as the morn sparkling in dew, Blooming with roses’ beauteous hue; Pure as an angel, artless and true, Smiling in gladness, loving me too. When o’er the lea with silent wing Summer was stealing flowers of spring, In a sweet valley, where willows wave O’er faded blossom, made we her grave. I’m only waiting for that blest hour When I shall rest with my lost flower, Waking at last where the perfect day In loveliness shall fade not away. |
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