Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;

(Sad path, alas, where grows
Not even one lonely rose!)

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,

For 'mid the earnest cares and woes
That crowd around my earthly path,
My soul at least a solace hath

But when within thy wave she looks-

Is a symbol and a token-

Which glistens then, and trembles-
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;

In dreams of thee; and therein knows
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies-
His heart which trembles at the beam

An Eden of bland repose and
Of her soul-searching eyes.