Yet some remission may be found,
While treading o'er unhallow'd ground
Where Anna's form has never been,
But, like the vapour of a dream,
Painted alone for memory's eye,
In colours that were wont to fly.
But, trust me, if in groves among
Where thou hast heard her voice, her song;
If thou hast mark'd her watch the cloud,
While the hoarse brook kept speaking loud;
Or seen her pensive musing stand,
The wild flowers dropping from her hand;
Or wreathe the woodbine round the tree, —
Trust me, it is no place for thee.
Such scenes would ever hold her there,
And thou would'st meet her every where;
Nor e'er could Time around thy woe
His soften'd veil of sorrow throw,
Such as when Evening dews arise
And seem thin gauze before the eyes;
All objects then, but dimly seen,
Look dimly through th' enammell'd screen;
But yet the landscape charms the sight,
And gives the eye a meek delight.