And yet when thou art absent I am sad；
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee，
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee！—yet， I know not why，
Whate‘er thou dost seems still well done， to me：
And often in my solitude I sigh
That those I do love are not more like thee！
I do not love thee！—yet， when thou art gone，
I hate the sound （though those who speak be dear）
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.
I do not love thee！—yet thy speaking eyes，
With their deep， bright， and most expressive blue，
Between me and the midnight heaven arise，
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.
I know I do not love thee！ yet， alas！
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart；
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass，
Because they see me gazing where thou art.