"How cold upon my passion blows the wind,
Over the old sweet fields — so sweet that I
Could wander more, yet for all memory
Not sweet enough. Beloved, ah! have I sinned,
That all but these dumb fields looks so unkind
And I, without e'en one familiar face,
Must see the darkness in the sunny place,
And set my feet here, wandering still in mind?"
Then glancing up, if heaven might look sweet
Upon his sorrow, one bright star he spied.
But, as he gazed, his hungry eyes grew dim,
And the star seemed so many worlds from him.
Heart-sick, he turned; and in the pool beside
Lo! the same star was shining at his feet.