My faint spirit was sitting in the light
      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.