Love, felt from afar, long sought, scarce found,
On thee I call;
Here where with silvery silent sound,
The smooth oars fall;

Here where the glimmering water-ways,
Above yon stair,
Mirror one trembling lamp that plays
In twilight air! 

What sights, what sounds, O poignant Love
Ere thou wert flown,
Quivered these darksome waves above,
In darkness known! 

I dare not dream thereof; the sting
Of those dead eyes
Is too acute and close a thing
For one who dies. 

Only I feel through glare and gloom,
Where yon lamp falls,
Dim spectres hurrying to their doom,
And love's voice calls:

'Twas better thus toward death to glide,
Soul-full of bliss
Than with long life unsatisfied
Life's crown to miss.