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Unwishing, loved one, to behold thee near!
For thou, maybe, art not the same to-day
Which once thou wert, in those sweet years gone
by,
When with our hosts didst to our castle ride.
But thou retainest, hidden in my breast,
Those self-same eyes, that posture, form, and dress.
So the fair moth, within the amber drowned,
Retains its primal form eternally.
O Alf! 'twere better far that we remain
That which we were in former days, and as
We shall unite again,—but not on earth.

"Leave we the beauteous valleys to the happy,
I love the stony stillness of my cell;
For me 'tis bliss enough to see thee living,
And in the evening thy loved voice to hear.
And in this silence, Alf, beloved, we may
Heal every suffering, sweeten every pang,
All treasons, murders, burnings, cast aside,
Strive thou to come but earlier and more frequent.

"If thou shouldst—listen, on these very plains.
Like to that arbour plant another bower,
And hither bring those willows that thou lovest,