T'SEE thee when I wake and when I dream,
For when across the beauteous meads I gaze,
Mysterious in the shimmering noontide haze,
O'er all like fragrance sweet thy face doth beam.

Then to my heart the blood in fullest stream
Will rush; until I sink in deep amaze:
How sweet and bitter is the cup I raise
To drink, ah, none indeed can truly deem!

How oft like one intoxicate I wake,
And feel the scalding tears upon my cheek,
And brood for long upon my throes of pain!
O is it but a dream, unreal and vain,
Or are these memories, vibrations weak
Of broken strings, that once did music make?