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176
“WE SHALL NEVER MEET AGAIN.”
We shall never meet again—
From this moment we are twain.
'Tis thy lip the word hath spoken,
'Tis thy hand the chain hath broken.
While the floods of passion rest
Deep within the human breast—
While or Love or Hate remain—
We shall never meet again.
From this moment we are twain.
'Tis thy lip the word hath spoken,
'Tis thy hand the chain hath broken.
While the floods of passion rest
Deep within the human breast—
While or Love or Hate remain—
We shall never meet again.
Shall we meet where yonder sphere
Shines unsullied by a tear:
Where forgetful fountains flow
O'er the depths of mortal woe:
Heart to heart, and hand to hand
In the distant spirit-land?
Something whispers to my brain,
We shall never meet again.
Shines unsullied by a tear:
Where forgetful fountains flow
O'er the depths of mortal woe:
Heart to heart, and hand to hand
In the distant spirit-land?
177
We shall never meet again.
On the mountain dark and rude,
In the desert's solitude,
By the ocean's restless shore,
We are doomed to meet no more.
In the pleasant homes of earth,
By the happy-circled hearth,
Mid the crowded haunts of men,
We shall never meet again.
In the desert's solitude,
By the ocean's restless shore,
We are doomed to meet no more.
In the pleasant homes of earth,
By the happy-circled hearth,
Mid the crowded haunts of men,
We shall never meet again.
In the morn's reviving light—
In the watches of the night—
In the twilight calm and pure—
Weary absence shall endure.
Never in communion sweet,
Shall our parted spirits meet.
And in sadness or in pain,
We shall never meet again.
In the watches of the night—
In the twilight calm and pure—
Weary absence shall endure.
Never in communion sweet,
Shall our parted spirits meet.
And in sadness or in pain,
We shall never meet again.
178
Day on day may heedless roll
O'er the desert of my soul.
And with every joyless year,
Greyer, whiter locks appear.
Yet the memory of the Past
Through each saddened hour shall last.
Hope and grief alike are vain—
We shall never meet again.
O'er the desert of my soul.
And with every joyless year,
Greyer, whiter locks appear.
Yet the memory of the Past
Through each saddened hour shall last.
Hope and grief alike are vain—
We shall never meet again.
1838.
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