What is't to me, whate'er it may impart?

She was away; the world's unceasing strife

For her alone I suffer'd through the heat
Of sultry day; oh, what refreshing life

At cooling eve!--my guerdon was complete.

The sun now set, and wand'ring hand in hand,

His last and blissful look we greeted then;
While spake our eyes, as they each other scann'd:

"From the far east, let's trust, he'll come again!"

At midnight!--the bright stars, in vision blest,

Guide to the threshold where she slumbers calm:
Oh be it mine, there too at length to rest,--

Yet howsoe'er this prove, life's full of charm!

1828.
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SUCH, SUCH IS HE WHO PLEASETH ME.

FLY, dearest, fly! He is not nigh!

He who found thee one fair morn in Spring