Edward Henry Bickersteth (1825-1906 / England)

I have gazed o'er the hills in the day's soft decline,
And my thoughts they have wandered to that fairer clime,
Where thou wast reposing mid sunshine and song,—
Oh! say, did thy smile or thy sigh e'er belong
One moment to me?
Ah! no.—Other forms—how much brighter—more fair
Than mine own—were around thee thy presence to share;
While Joy, on her pinions of azure and gold,
Shed her light o'er the lovely—the thoughtless—the bold,
Unmindful of me.
And my proud heart that stooped not to flatter the crowd,
In its solitude pined—yet its grief was not loud;
For ah! as the blossom that turns to the sun
Shuts its beauty as soon as his race he has run,—
Its fond worship o'er;
So my heart had its twilight—its sun—and its showers,—
But lonely it drooped in sad memory's bowers,
For its hope and its sunlight had faded away;—
Thy star again shone, and its bright quivering ray
Brought peace unto me.