He liveth, but for thee his life is o’er;
Count the slow years with weary annotation,
The mocking years shall bring him back no more.
Sit by thy hearth-stone in the silence grieving,
Take from the past its sweet yet faded flowers;
For thee no tree of hope has spring-time’s leaving,
The song is silent in thy pleasant bowers.
From all thy future him thou must dissever,
Poor broken heart! in vain must thou deplore;
His feet from that far land shall seek thee never,