That word which fills the seraph’s holiest strain—
The word—“I love!”—pronounced by gods and men—
This—this is worth a tear!
A tear! a vain regret—an idle breath!
My soul mounts heavenward on the wings of death.
I go—where all our loftiest wishes rise;
I go—where hope hath fixed her burning gaze—
I go—where float my lute’s high notes of praise—
Where tend my latest sighs.
Like birds that see through darkness of the tomb,