Henry Francis Lyte (1 June 1793 - 20 November 1847 / Scotland)
A Lost Love
I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
Thy thrilling voice I hear;
And former hours and scenes retrace,
Too fleeting, and too dear!
Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
Though none is nigh to share;
And life has nought beside for me
So sweet as this despair.
There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
And mine, methinks, is one;
Or thus I should not weep and wake,
And thou to slumber gone.
I little thought it thus could be
In days more sad and fair
That earth could have a place for me,
And thou no longer there.
Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
Or make thee less my own:
Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
Than watching here alone.
Yet never, never can we part,
While Memory holds her reign:
Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart,
Till we shall meet again.
Comments about this poem (A Lost Love by Henry Francis Lyte )
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