I love to forget Ambition
And Hope, in the mingled thought
Of valley and wood and meadow,
Where whilome my spirit caught
Affection's holiest breathings;
Where, under the skies, with me
Young Rosalie roved--aye drinking
From Joy's bright Castaly.
I think of the valley and river,
The old wood bright with blossoms;
Of the pure and chastened gladness
Upspringing in our bosoms;
I think of the lonely turtle
So tongued with melancholy;
And the hue of the drooping moonlight,
And the starlight pure and holy!
Of the beat of a heart most tender;
The sigh of a shell-tinct lip,
As soft as the land tones, wandering
Far leagues, over ocean deep;
Of a step, as light in its falling,
On the breast of the beaded lea,
As the fall of the fairy moonlight,
On the leaf of yon tulip tree.
I think of these and the murmur
Of bird and katadyd,
Whose home is the grave yard cypress,
Whose goblet the honey-reed;
And then I weep! for Rosalie
Has gone to her early rest;
And the green-lipped reed and the daisy,
Suck sweets from her maiden breast.