Those features I have loved, but know no more.
Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean,
What cavern holds thy form—
Cast by the furious storm?
“Hope of my hope, gone o’er the swelling ocean!
I weep for thee when night is on the sea:
My bosom bursteth with its deep emotion—
My spirit stretcheth out its arms but finds not thee.
O misery! and then itself within itself retires,
And weeps away a night that has no morn;