Classic Poem

And thou art now no longer near!
From me, O fairest, thou hast flown!
Nor rings in my accustomed ear
A single word — a single tone.

As when, at morn, the wanderer's eye
Pierces the air in vain to see
Where, hidden in the deep-blue sky,
High up the lark goes singing free, —

So wanders anxiously my gaze
Piercing the field, the bush, the grove;
On thee still call my frequent lays:
O, come to me again, dear love.