I. <br />Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, <br />Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; <br />Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, <br />She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. <br />I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, <br />As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; <br />And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, <br />'Stay thy boat on the lake,--dearest Henry, I come.' <br /> <br />II. <br />High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection, <br />As lightly her form bounded over the lea, <br />And arose in her mind every dear recollection; <br />'I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.' <br />How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, <br />When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, <br />And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, <br />Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee! <br /> <br />III. <br />Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve, <br />And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air; <br />Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive? <br />Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? <br />Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving, <br />O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; <br />But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, <br />In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-drowned-lover/
