I think of thee amid the crowd,
Of thee in hours alone
I muse upon thy look and smile,
The last and parting tone; 
And while the sigh is on my lip,
And tears my eyes brim o'er,
I wish that I could love thee less,
Or thou could'st love me more.

I think of thee in wint'ry hours,
Of desolating rest,
'Tis like my heart, and thus I love
The mournful winter best.
I cannot wake the melodies
Of joy I priz'd before
Ah! would that I could love thee less,
Or thou could'st love me more.