The forest flowers are faded all,
The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall,
    Elëanore!
I turn to thee, as to a bower: --
Thou breathest beauty like a flower,
Thou smilest like a happy hour,
    Elëanore!


I turn to thee. I bless afar
Thy name, which is my guiding-star,
    Elëanore!
And yet, ah God! when thou art here
I faint, I hold my breath for fear.
Art thou some phantom wandering near,
    Elëanore?


Oh, take me to thy bosom fair;
Oh, cover me with thy golden hair,
    Elëanore!
There let me lie when I am dead,
Those morning beams about me spread,
The glory of thy face o'erhead,
    Elëanore!