I cannot weep that thou art fled;
Forever blends my soul with thine;
Each thought, by purer impulse led,
Is soaring on to realms divine.
. . . . . . . . . .
I hear thee in the summer breeze,
See thee in all that’s pure or fair,
Thy whisper in the murmuring trees,
Thy breath, thy spirit, every where.
Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep,