I pass the house where She is not, to feel an unfamiliar chill;
That door is disenchanted now, that number powerless to thrill!
'Twas there, in yonder balcony, that last July she used to stand;
Upon some balcony, more blest, she's leaning now, in Switzerland,
Her eyes upon rose-tinted peaks—but no, of sense I 'm quite bereft!
The hour is full early yet, and table d hôte she'll scarce have left.
Some happy neighbour's handing her the salad—But I'll move, I think;
I see a grim caretaker's eye regard me through the shutter's chink.
Yes, I'll away,—no longer be the sport of sentiment forlorn,
But scale the heights of Primrose Hill, pretending it's the Matterhorn;