The sombre heather framed you round,
The starlight touched your pallid face,
You moved across the silvered ground--
The night was happy with your grace.

The air was steeped in silver fire,
The gorse was touched with silvern sheen;
The nightingales--the holy choir--
Sang bridal songs for you, my queen.

But songs and starfire, pomp of night,
Murmur of trees and Ocean's roll,
Were poor beside the blind delight--
The Love that quivered in my soul.

Further on there is a single brief verse like a cry of rage and
despair:--

And is it then the End of all?
O, Father! What a doom is mine--
An unreturning prodigal,
Who feeds on husks and herds with swine!

After many ravings the torn soul seems to grow calm, and we have this
pensive and tender fragment of music:--

The dreams that fill the thoughtful night,
All holy dreams are in the sky,
They stoop to me with viewless flight,