Classic Poem

My spirit lingers round that blessed space,
Which prisons her fair form. Still on mine ear
Like dying notes of angels' minstrelsy
Her lips' last music dwells. Yet not to me
O, not to me was pour'd the parting glance,
Enrapturing anguish: not to me the hand
Held out in kindness, whose remember'd touch
Might soothe the absent heart. And it is well.
Why should she think on me? she holds her course
A happy star in heaven, by gales of bliss
Lull'd to repose on the soft-bosom'd clouds,
Or bathing in the pure blue deep of light.
In grossness I, and mists of earthly sense,
Creep on my way benighted: half afraid
To lift my eyes to brightness: or perchance
If wayward fate so wills, a moment rais'd
To float an unsubstantial meteor-light,
Born of this nether air, and there to die.