It is not that she's far away
That breaks the heart and dims the day;
It is that there is something gone
Her passion used to dream upon;
That now the tender dream is o'er,
And him she loved she loves no more.

Her absence makes my spirit mourn—
Yet e'en her absence could be borne:
But,—bleakest of all human grief,
And desolate beyond relief,—
One thought consumes my bosom's core—
That him she loved she loves no more.

The violets should be bluer far,
The roses redder than they are,
And lighter o'er the rippling grass
The shadows of the clouds should pass.
There's nothing as it was before—
For him she loved she loves no more.