Thy form was fair, thine eye was bright, 

 Thy voice was melody; 

Around thee beam'd the purest light 

 Of love's own sky. 

Each word that trembled on thy tongue 

 Was sweet, was dear to me; 

A spell in those soft numbers hung 

 That drew my soul to thee. 

Thy form, thy voice, thine eyes are now 

 As beauteous and as fair; 

But though still blooming is thy brow, 

 Love is not there. 

And though as sweet thy voice be yet, 

 I treasure not the tone; 

It cannot bid my heart forget? 

 Its tenderness is gone!