NOT LOST ᎪᎡᎢ THOU то ME. 117 Not Lost art Chou to Me. Nor lost art thou to me; Thou, the departed! Dwelleth instead. I turn, and thou art not— There is that can part not- The blind there is, heareth; And a sense in my spirit Liveth to thee ! None other hath merit,— Pleasure for me. Often, thou precious one, Oft, as I sit alone, Doth it appear: Not in voice, not in form, But the life of thy being, When riseth the full soul In anguish on high, Thou dost its grief control; Thou then art nigh. In hope, thou art o'er me! And sunset doth bring, 'Mid hues I've watch'd with thee, A violet wing. In music descending, Thou comest to me; Joys past with thee blending, Let morning's glad brightness, Clouds passing in lightness,- ME. 119 NOT LOST ᎪᎡᎢ THOU TO Not lost art thou to me, O thou departed! Dwelleth instead: I look, and thou art not! There is that can part not-- To a Clover. THOU art a little rustic flower For where thou art must ever be The breath of life and liberty! No cultured flowers here mock thy bloom, From which the sweetest thoughts may spring All holy-for they 're born above, Where He who form'd thee dwells in love, Till vanish'd is its little hour. |