There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

There is no instinct like that of the heart.

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.

In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.