She tracks the lost by prints his feet have made.
Each spot she studies, in the fond belief
The faith of love can never be gainsaid.
Then, from the woods that her moans overflow,
An impulse drives her to renew her woe
At the stall, where a passionate regret,
Piercing her heart, tosses her to and fro.
Not willow saplings, dewy grass, nor sight
Of brimming rivers, with, in warm noon light,
Cool pools to stand in, banish pain and ache,