Would ask too loudly, “Where is he?”
And oh! that orb, on whose mild rays
So fondly, too, we used to gaze,
And, though far distant, there unite
At the same sacred hour of night,
Seems sadly now to whisper me,
“Thou art all alone,—where, where is he?”
Life was to us no cloudless day,
Blossom and blight still marked our way;
But sorrow is not skilled to part,