The cold, cruel gods who for ever
Sway men's destinies, doomed we should meet.
The cold, cruel gods! — who now sever
Two wild hearts which bound but to greet;
And then bound as the lark from his low bed,
And sing as he sings when on high,
When the sun o'er the earth hath his glow shed,
And his splendour is broad in the sky.

The flush of thy cheek was as morning,
As her star, the sweet light in thine eyes,
To a heart wrapt in darkness deforming,
And tost in a tempest of sighs;
And I dreamed in a sleep, sweet to sadness,
As thy red lips in fancy I prest,
That that heart should beat high with noon's gladness,
And should bask in the beams of the west.

But lo! ere the day-spring is dewless,
Ere the shrill lark's loud matin is o'er,
I look for thy form, but 'tis viewless,
For thy voice, but I hear it no more;
And Night with the boom of her beetles,
Dethrones Day with the songs of her birds,
There are death knells from shadowy steeples,
And wailings too wild for all words;

And I roam like some soul banned from blessing,
Amid scenes where joy's cup used o'er-brim,
And bemocked of a phantom caressing,
And the ghost of a conjugal hymn;
There's a night in my heart past fate's scorning,
Since above it no morrow shall rise,
For the flush of thy cheek was my morning,
My day star, the light in thine eyes.