Far away doth live?
I would fly to thee, love,
But no wings have I;
Withered, parch'd, without thee,
Every hour I die.
The following little elegy, heard and written down in Galicia, we have always considered as one of the gems of poetry. It is a sigh of deep, mourning, everlasting love.
THE DEAD LOVE.
White art thou, my maiden,
Can'st not whiter be!
Warm my love is, maiden,