Dear Mary, if my heart has hushed awhile,
Its loving voice within my breast—yet there,
Thine image was enshrined the dearest thing,
Which now remains to me in this sad world.
Thou bad'st me sing a song of thee, and said'st,
That I should make thee to my dreamy thought,
Whoe'er I would, and I will make thee be,
A fair and gentle friend—a lovely one—
Ah yes, the nearest, tenderest of all friends.
Sweet Mary, dost thou read my thought?