And thou, to dreams of joy—but not of me.
“Good-night!” how very coldly it was spoken;
But those loved tones are lingering near me yet,
And though of tenderness they bring no token,
I would not, if I had the power, forget.
“Good-night!” and happy, dearest, be thy morrow—
From gloom and sadness be thy future free;
Be mine alone the darkness and the sorrow—
For where thou art not, all is night to me.