Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!
Where art thou?—where? Had I but lingering press’d
On thy cold lips the last long kiss—but smooth’d
The parted ringlets of thy shining hair
With love’s fond touch, my heart’s cry had been still’d
Into a voiceless grief: I would have strew’d
With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods—
White violets, and the mournful hyacinth,
And frail anemone, thy marble brow,