Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art, 
Calmer is her gentle heart. 
Yes! o’er fountain, vale, and grove, 
Leaf and flower, hath gush’d her love, 
But that passion, deep and true. 
Knows not of a last adieu. 
Types of lovelier forms than these, 
In their fragile mould she sees ; 
Shadows of yet richer things, 
Born beside immortal springs, 
Into fuller glory wrought, 
Kindled by surpassing thought. 
Therefore in the lily’s leaf 
She can read no word of grief ; 
O’er the woodbine she can dwell, 
Murmuring not—Farewell ! farewell! 
And her dim yet speaking eye, 
Greets the violet solemnly. 
Therefore, once, and yet again, 
Strew them o’er her bed of pain; 
From her chamber take the gloom, 
With a light and flush of bloom : 
So should one depart, who goes 
Where no death can touch the rose. 
: . . .. 
