My bosom’s evening star were gone, 
And lost lifes sweetest flower to me. 
Yon alder leaning o’er the brook 
Metliinks doth type of love supply; 
Above, around, nought wins its look 
From the clear stream that murmurs by. 
And thus when thou art near I seem 
To have no thought for aught but thee, — 
Thou art the star, the flow’r, the stream, 
The all of earthly joy to me. 
