The moonlight struggled through the vines, and fell upon thy face,
Which thou didst lovingly upturn with pure and trustful gaze.
The southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair,
As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Thy love and faith thou plighted'st then, with smile and mingled tear,
Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here.
Nor angry word nor angry look thou ever gavest me,
But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship thee. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health;
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth;
Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each desponding hour,
As heaven's honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
