And feel in thought, beyond where pen or words are skill’d.
In moonlight we can fancy that one grave,
Resting amid the mountains bleak and bare,
Although no willow’s swinging pendants wave
Above the little captive sleeping there,
With thee beside her wrapp’d in voiceless prayer;
We guess thy anguish, feel thy heart’s deep woe,
And list for moans upon the midnight air,
As tears of sympathy in silence flow
For her whose unmark’d head is lying calm and low.