I knew her not, whose image blendeth yet
With every dream of joy the night doth bring—
Whose blessed features Love will ne’er forget,
Nor of whose worth thy muse e’er cease to sing!
But ’tis enough, that she was all thy choice,
To know that sorrow hath with thee a deep-toned voice.
And is she not thy “guardian angel” now?
Doth she not “live in beauty” yet, above,
And oft descend, to watch thy steps below,
And whisper in thy dreams sweet words of love?