The tones thou lovest linger not. I die
Ere the young freshness of our love hath flown
I die, and thou wilt be on earth alone!
Speak not, dear friend! Let this sad thought now find
An utterance—solemn, strange, as it hath swept
O'er me like some strong whirlwind in its might;
But now 't hath melted to a moaning wind,
Which lulleth me to peace. The flush of health
Is on my cheek, and the cool blood moves on
Through all my veins, unfevered in its flow;