Oft at the sunset’s holy time, Our spirits’ trysting hour, I wander to commune with thee Beneath the wildwood bower; And o’er me there thy tone of love, Like the low moaning of a dove, Steals with a soothing power; ’Tis gone—my voice in anguish calls, But silence on the desert falls. I gaze on yon sweet moon as erst We gazed on that dear night When our deep, parting vows were said Beneath its mournful light; And then with tones, low, sweet and clear, Thou breathest in my ravished ear And risest on my sight— I call thee, but the woods around With mocking voice repeat the sound. I look on each memento dear, The tress, the flower, the ring, And these thy sweet and gentle form Back to my spirit bring; I seem to live past raptures o’er, Our hands, our hearts, our lips once more In one wild pressure cling— It fades—I mourn the vision flown And start to find myself alone. I look upon thy pictured face ’Till from my straining eyes My soul steals out to animate The sweet but lifeless dyes; The dark eyes wake, the dear lips speak, Their breath is warm upon my cheek— I clasp the living prize; Alas! I wake to cold despair, There’s but a painted mockery there. My youth is vanished from my life, And ah! I feel that now The lines of manhood’s fading prime Are deepening on my brow; My life is in its evening shade, And soon its last pale flowers will fade Upon the withering bough, Alas! alas! that life should be So fleeting and not passed with thee! Farewell, our dreams are idle now, And tears are idler yet, But oft beneath the midnight moon My eyelids still are wet; Oh! I could bear life’s every grief, Its shade, its cloud, its withered leaf, Its sun’s last darkened set, Could I but know that we might love As now in that bright world above.