Since all that's fair forbids me to forget.
Eyes that have gazed upon yon silver crescent,
'Till filled with light, then turned to gaze in mine,
Lips that could clothe a fancy evanescent,
In words whose magic thrilled the brain like wine:
Hands that have wreathed June's roses in my tresses,
And gathered violets to deck my breast,
Where are ye now? I miss your dear caresses—
I miss the lips, the eyes, that made me blest.
Lonely I sit and watch the fitful burning