I think of thee at day-break still,
   And then thou art my playmate small,
Beside our straw-roofed village rill
   Gathering cowslips tall,
And chasing oft the butterfly,
   Which flutters past like treacherous life.
You smile at me and at you I,
A husband boy and baby wife.


I think of thee at noon again,
   And thy meridian beauty high
Falls on my bosom, like young rain
   Out of a summer sky:
And I reflect it in the tear,
   Which ‘neath thy picture drops forlorn,
And then my love is bright and clear,
And manlier than it was at morn.


I think of thee by evening’s star,
   And softly melancholy, slow,
An eye doth glisten from afar,
   All full of lovely woe.
The air then sighingly doth part,
   And, or from Death the cold, or Love,
I hear the passing of a dart,
   But hope once more, and look above.


I think of thee at black midnight,
   And woe and agony it is
To see thy cheek so deadly white,
   To hear thy grave-worm hiss.
But looking on thy lips is cheer,
   They closed in love, pronouncing love;
And then I tremble, not for fear,
   But in thy breath from heaven above.

[Kelsall, 1851]