Of thy looks my love；
It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks my love.
Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight
Bore thee far from me；
My heart for my weak feet were weary soon
Did companion thee.
Ah！ fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed
Or the death they bear
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care；
In the battle in the darkness in the need
Shall mine cling to thee
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort love
It may bring to thee.