Of our parting was drear as the night of the tomb,
I know when all shadows are swept from the main,
Our own star o’er the waters shall tremble again.
When the clouds that now veil from us heaven’s fair light;
Their soft silver lining turn forth on the night;
When time shall the vapors of falsehood dispel,
He shall know if I loved him, but never how well.
Though we meet not again in our island of flowers;
Though the hollow winds sigh through its desolate bowers,
Every bud that the wing of the tempest has riven,