BEREFT of Thee my wildered sense

Went wailing on from eve to morn,

And in my loneliness forlorn

I called on Death to take me hence.

I called on Death, but called in vain;

Only thine image, limned by thought

In my heart’s inner chamber, brought

A little solace to my pain.

Kneeling before my lamp to-night,

And musing on Thy lustrous form,

I loosed my prayers, as birds, to swarm

Towards Thee in their homing flight.

And I, a bird, imprisoned long

And banished from Thy pleasure-grounds,

In vain regret that knows no bounds

Murmur to Thee my plaintive song.