The spirit in my soul hath woken,
And bids me speak to thee again;
And silence, many a day unbroken,
Must cease, although it cease in vain.
As life approaches to its goal,
And other passions seem to die,
The thoughts of thee that haunt the soul
Decay not, sleep not, death defy.

Love's busy wings delight to fan
A heart that hath been worn to ashes,
And, aided by thy spirit, Ann,
Beneath his eye that heart still flashes.
Oh! why doth Love build up his nest
A ruined palace aye within,
Hiding within the poet's breast—
Why seeks he not a home more green?

He hath no alcyon power, to still
The passions of the trampled heart,
Rob of its pain the torture-thrill,
Bid sorrow, want, and pain depart:
Oh no! he adds a fiercer pang
To every wo which rankles there,
Sharpens the scorpion's fiery fang,
Adds wildness unto terror's glare.

Yet still, I love thee, and forever—
No matter what or where I be;
The blow which shall existence sever,
Alone can end my love for thee.
I love thee as men love but once—
As few have loved, can love a woman;
It seemeth strange, this perfect trance
Of love, for one that is but human.

But thou wast rich, and I was poor;
I never spake my love to thee;
And I could all my wo endure,
Nor ask thee, Ann, to wed with me.
To wed with me!—it were to wed
With Poverty, and Want, and Wo:
Rather than this, from thee I fled,
And still a lonely outcast go.

But day by day my love hath grown
For thee, as all things else decline;
And when I seem the most alone,
Thy spirit doth commune with mine.
I have no portion with the world,
Nor hath the world a part with me;
But the lone wave, now shoreward hurled,
Will turn, yea, dying, turn to thee.

I make to thee, thy love, no claim;
I ask thee but, when I shall die,
To lay the world-forgotten name
Within thy heart, and o'er it sigh.
Think that the love which I have felt,
To which existence hath been given,
Has been as pure as stars that melt
And die within the depths of heaven.

Fare thee well—it is forever!
Thou hast heard my dying words;
Till the cords of life shall sever,
Till the serpent Wo, that girds
The exile heart, its strings have broken,
Bruised and crushed and shattered it;
Until this, to thee are spoken
All my words—my dirge is writ.