A Remembrance

I see thee still! thou art not dead,   Though dust is mingled with thy form; The broken sunbeam hath not shed   The final rainbow on the storm: In visions of the midnight deep,   Thine accents through my bosom thrill Till joy’s fond impulse bids me weep,—   For, wrapt in thought, I see thee still! I see thee still,—that cheek of rose,—   Those lips with dewy fragrance wet,— That forehead in serene repose,—   Those soul-lit eyes—I see them yet! Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead,   Thou gracest still this earthly sphere; An influence still is round me shed,   Like thine,—and yet thou art not here! Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight   Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom; No more thy smiles inspire delight,   For thou art garnered in the tomb,— Rich harvest for that ruthless power   Which hath me bound to bear his will: Yet, as in hope’s unclouded hour,   Throned in my heart I see thee still.