George Darley

On the Death of a Recluse

'Mid roaring brooks and dark moss-vales,
Where speechless Thought abides,
Still her sweet spirit dwells,
That knows no world besides.

Her form the woodland still retains -
Wound but a creeping flower,
Her very life-blood stains
There, in a falling shower.

Touch but th stream, drink but the air,
Her cheek, her breath, is known,
Ravish that red rose there,
And she is all thine own.