Oh! I would I could send you my love
With a cloud-shadow hastening by;
Still swifter than flieth a dove,
And far stiller than birds ever fly;
With a so quicken'd soul you should find
That you liv'd in a love-smitten mind.

By the stream I have nothing to say,
Though it washes the ground that I press,
It keeps to the same only way,
Never reaching the home that you bless;
But the cloud-flights, to no quarter true,
Happen now to pass herefrom to you.

Oh! the rooks that fly homeward at night,
To the wood up above your abode,
Swift-speeded soon find you in sight,
The while I slowly wend by the road,
And they roost on the treeheads on high
While the home of my heart is hard by.