Thy form was fair, thine eye was bright,
    Thy voice was melody;
Around thee beam'd the purest light
    Of love's own sky.

Each word that trembled on thy tongue
    Was sweet, was dear to me;
A spell in those soft numbers hung
    That drew my soul to thee.

Thy form, thy voice, thine eyes are now
    As beauteous and as fair;
But though still blooming is thy brow,
   Love is not there.

And though as sweet thy voice be yet,
   I treasure not the tone;
It cannot bid my heart forget —
   Its tenderness is gone!