Has word of me reached thee at last,Or hast thou learned how I am cast?
They think, in their mistaken view,That I am happy, pleased, and true;
Yesterday my smile would shineLike spirit's ray, seductive, fine;
The springs of my regard ran dry,That once like vintage wine stood nigh;
My bosom fell to silence — noneWould speak a cheerful smile's bright tone;
Even the breeze, when it would seeMy state, would pity mine and me;
And here in solitude I pine,Tormenting heart with phantom's line.