By the walk of the willows I pour’d out my theme,
The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream;
By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe,
And my tears, like the tide, seem’d to tremble and flow.
Ye green scatter’d reeds, that half lean to the wave,
In your plaintive, your musical, sighs, could ye save
But one note of my charmer, to soften my doom,
I would stay till these willows should arch me a tomb!
For ye know, when I pour’d out my soul on the lute,
How she hung down her head, so expressively mute!
From my hand she would take it, still breathing my pain;
She would touch it—return it—and smile at the strain.
Ye wild blooming flow’rs, that enamel this brink,
Like me could ye feel, and like me could ye think,
How sadly would droop ev’ry beautiful leaf!
How soon would your sweetness be wasted with grief!
She is gone, in a cloud, like the star of the night!
She has left me, heart-broken, to mourn at her flight,—
To think of the hours she endear’d by her love.
To sigh till again I shall join her above!