Robert Burns

To Mary in Heaven

THOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
  That lov’st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usherest in the day
  My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
  Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
  Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget?
  Can I forget the hallow’d grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
  To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface
  Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace-
  Ah! little thought we ‘twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss’d his pebbled shore,
  O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
  Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
  The birds sang love on ev’ry spray,
Till too too soon, the glowing west
  Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.

Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes,
  And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
  As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!
  Where is thy blissful place of rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
  Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?