I meant to find her when I came;
 Death had the same design;
But the success was his, it seems,
 And the discomfit mine.

I meant to tell her how I longed
 For just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first,
 And she had hearkened him.

To wander now is my abode;
 To rest,--to rest would be
A privilege of hurricane
 To memory and me.