I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Vane; My life’s bright dream and early Hath come again; I renew in my fond vision My heart’s dear pain, My hope, and thy derision, Florence Vane. The ruin lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst mark my story, At even told,— That spot—the hues Elysian Of sky and plain— I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane. Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane! But, fairest, coldest wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under,— Alas the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain,— To quicken love’s pale ember, Florence Vane. The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The pansies love to dally Where maidens sleep; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane!
Florence Vane
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