No more for me thou cullest the flow’r;⁠—

No more with me thou seekest the bow’r;⁠—

No more thy sweet lips press my own;⁠—

No more thy warm hands link with mine,

When Daylight, stooping from his throne,

Has furl’d his wing by evening’s shrine.

She answered not! yet sorrow there

Has held a bridal with despair,

And pale her cheek as if with wo

Which none but she must ever know.