Ah! well I know that I shall never find
Thy like this side of Heaven! Well I know
That whether on the ways of dream I go,
Or seek thy semblance with awaken'd mind,
Naught can avail, and I as well were blind.
About thee lies the summer's afterglow,
Where Autumn, lonely in her golden woe,
Hints of its secret with the homeless wind.

Tho' Heaven and hope forsake me, still thou art,
And all my memory is made thy throne.
O lonely in thy loveliness, be true!
O rose without a sister! Close thy heart!
To all but me! Thy memory in mine own
Hides like a tear of everlasting dew.