I sought at morn the beechen bower.
Thy verdant grot;
It came—it went—the promised hour—
I found thee not.
Light Zephyrs from the quivering boughs
Soon brushed the transient dew;
Then first I feared that Love's own vows
Were transient too!
At eve I sought the well known stream
Where, wont to rove,
We breathed so oft, by twilight gleam,
Our vows of love;
I stopped upon the pleasant brink,
And saw the wave glide past;
Ah me! I could not help but think
Love glides as fast.
Then all along the moonlight glen,
So soft—so fair—
I sought thy truant steps agen—
Thou wert not there.
The clouds held on their busy way
Athwart the waning Moon;
And such, I said, Love's fitful ray,
And wanes as soon.
Oh! I had culled for thee a wreath
Of blossoms rare;
But now each flowret droops beneath
The chill night-air.
'Tis past—long past—our latest hour,
And yet thou art not nigh;
Oh! Love, thou art indeed a flower
Born but to die!
