My love is “fill’d with gloom,” you say;
Yet think! when I had spied her,
The flowers that made her bower so gay
Had lost their light beside her.
Ah, could my darling see it so,
And gloomy seem? No, no; no, no.
My love is weary, wandering;
Yet I, who sped to find her
With worlds of fancies on the wing,
Saw all fall far behind her.