Recalling soft Elysian memories.
How oft engraven in the oaken rind,
My hapless name with his I see entwined.
Dear hand, that carved these love knots, ’neath the mould
Thou now alas! art shrunken, pulseless, cold!
And has he left the world forevermore,
That still contains his ill-starred paramour?
Oh, woe is me! Oh sickening, keen distress!
Oh solemn, strange, and mighty loneliness!
That makes to issue from my riven breast