Soon the silver chord is broken,
Where sweet music lov'd to dwell;
Soon, too soon alas! is spoken
Love's fond-echo'd word, farewell.

Soon the waves, so lightly bounding,
All forget the tempest blast;
Soon the pines, so sadly sounding,
Cease to mourn the storm that's past.

Soon is hush'd the voice of gladness,
Heard within the green wood's breast;
Yet comes back no notes of sadness,
No remembrance breaks its rest.

Soon the river, brightly gleaming,
Rolls its dark forgetful wave;
As if sun were on it beaming,
And still give the light it gave.

But the heart too fond may treasure
Words it cannot hear again —
Echoes of remember'd pleasure,
Torturing there for aye remain.

Ling'ring looks around it hover,
Mock with thoughts of former joy;
Visions it can ne'er recover,
Looks that time can ne'er destroy.