I SEE thee still! thou art not dead,
Though dust is mingled with thy form;
The broken sunbeam hath not shed
The final rainbow on the storm:
In visions of the midnight deep,
Thine accents through my bosom thrill
Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep, —
For, wrapt in thought, I see thee still!

I see thee still, — that cheek of rose, —
Those lips with dewy fragrance wet, —
That forehead in serene repose, —
Those soul-lit eyes — I see them yet!
Sweet seraph! Sure thou art not dead,
Thou gracest still this earthly sphere;
An influence still is round me shed,
Like thine, — and yet thou art not here!

Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight
Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom;
No more thy smiles inspire delight,
For thou art garnered in the tomb, —
Rich harvest for that ruthless power
Which hath me bound to bear his will:
Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour,
Throned in my heart I see thee still.