It seemed she came from heaven to make me blest.
A golden harp was in her snow-white hand,
And when she touched the strings, so softly prest,
The music seemed as from some heavenly band,
As though she came from heaven to make me blest.
Her eyes were of that soft, celestial hue,
Which heaven puts on when Day is in the west;
Whose words were soft as drops of evening dew—
It seemed she came from heaven to make me blest.
Long had we parted—long had she been dead—