And faded—oh! thou wouldst but scorn me now,
If thou couldst look on me!—a wither’d leaf,
Sear’d—though for thy sake—by the blast of grief!
Better to see thee thus! For thou didst go
Bearing my image on thy heart, I know,
Unto the dead. My Ulric! through the night
How have I call’d thee! With the morning light
How have I watch’d for thee!—wept, wander’d, pray’d,
Met the fierce mountain-tempest, undismay’d,
In search of thee!—bound my worn life to one—