And, well-belovëd, is this all, this all?
Gone, like a vapour which the potent morn
Kills, and in killing glorifies! I call
Through the lone night for thee, my dear first-born
Soul-fellow! but my heart vibrates in vain.
Ah! well I know, and often fancy forms
The weather-blown churchyard where thou art lain—
The churchyard whistling to the frequent storms.
But down the valley, by the river side,
Huge walnut-trees—bronze-foliaged, motionless
As leaves of metal—in their shadows hide
Warm nests, low music, and true tenderness.
But thou, betrothed! art far from me, from me.
O heart! be merciful—I loved him utterly.