by Thomas Arkell Tidmarsh.
Originally published in Bradshaw's Journal (William Strange) vol.2 #2 (13 Nov 1841).
I often sigh in solitude,
And wildly think of thee;
And long to press thee to my heart,
Where thou should'st ever be;
But vain the thought, and vainer still
The hope to make thee mine;
For oh! alas, I feel too well
I never can be thine.
I gaze upon thy loveliness—
I revel in the sight;
I dream of beauty, love, and thee—
I dream of all that's bright.
I see thee in the sun-lit sky,
Thy lightness in the lake,
Thy smile within the flow'ret's eye,
And kiss it for thy sake.
I hear thy voice in ev'ry breeze,
Its softness in the stream;
So nature wakes my soul to thee,
And yet 'tis but a dream.
For vain the thought, and vainer still
The hope to make thee mine;
Since oh! alas, I feel too well
I never can be thine.