Page:Summer on the lakes, in 1843.djvu/111

 They heart to heart have never pressed,

Nor hands in holy pledge have given,

 By father's love were ne'er caressed,

Nor in a mother's eye saw heaven.

 A flowerless and fruitless tree,

A dried up stream, a mateless bird,

 They live, yet never living be,

They die, their music all unheard.

 I wish I were where Helen lies,

For there I could not be alone;

 But now, when this dull body dies,

The spirit still will make its moan.

 Love passed me by, nor touched my brow;

Life would not yield one perfect boon;

 And all too late it calls me now,

O all too late, and all too soon.

 If thou couldst the dark riddle read

Which leaves this dart within my breast,

 Then might I think thou lov'st indeed,

Then were the whole to thee confest.

 Father, they will not take me home,

To the poor child no heart is free;

 In sleet and snow all night I roam;

Father, — was this decreed by thee?

 I will not try another door,

To seek what I have never found;

 Now, till the very last is o'er,

Upon the earth I'll wander round.