Absence from whom we love is worse than death, And frustrate hope severer than despair.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, While meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oftenest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar. Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell? Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far, Before you agonise them in …

But then to wake and find it flown, The dream of happiness destroyed, To find myself unloved, alone, What tongue can speak the dreary void? A heart whence warm…

When I died last, and dear, I die As often as from thee I go.