I search my heart lest something I have missed,
But in its garden find no dying rose.
Thou hast been kind to me; no marble urn
Chills the warm pulses of my heart to night,
And from the thought my pen doth gladly turn
To offer homage ere you take your flight.
Bright recollections thou hast left instead,
That twinkle in the firmament of thought,
And lover-like I sit and gaze o’erhead
Upon the starry gems thy hand has wrought.