Too deep and still on thy soft-seal’d eyes;
Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see—
When will the hour of thy rising be?
Not when the fawn wakes—not when the lark
On the crimson cloud of the morn floats dark.
Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
Love, with sad kisses unfelt, hath press’d
Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,