Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless!
—Not now! ’twill not be now!—my aching sight,
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness,
Bearing all strength away!
Leave me!—thou com’st between my heart and Heaven;
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die!—
Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven?
Return! thy parting wakes mine agony!
Oh, yet awhile delay!