In the most early morn I rise from a damp pillow, tempest-tost, To seek the sun with silent gaze forlorn, And mourn for thee, my lost Isabel. That early hour I meet The daily vigil of my life to keep, Because there are no other lights so sweet, Or shades so long and deep, Isabel. And best I think of thee Beside the duskest shade and brightest sun, Whose mystic lot in life it was to be Outshone, outwept by none, Isabel. Men said that thou wert fair: There is no brightness in the heaven above, There is no balm upon the summer air Like thy warm love, Isabel. Men saw that thou wert bright: There is no wildness in the winds that blow, There is no darkness in the winter's night Like thy dark woe, Isabel. And yet thy path did miss Men's footsteps: in their haunts thou hadst no joy; The thoughts of other worlds were thine in this; In thy sweet piety, and in thy bliss And grief, for life too coy, Isabel. And so my heart's despair Looks for thee ere the firstling smoke hath curled; While the rapt earth is at her morning pray'r, Ere yet she putteth on her workday air And robes her for the world, Isabel. When the sun-burst is o'er, My lonely way about the world I take, Doing and saying much, and feeling more, And all things for thy sake, Isabel. But never once I dare To see thine image till the day be new, And lip hath sullied not the unbreathed air, And waking eyes are few, Isabel. Then that lost form appears Which was a joy to few on earth but me: In the young light I see thy guileless glee, In the deep dews thy tears, Isabel. So with Promethean moan In widowhood renewed I learn to grieve; Blest with one only thought-that I alone Can fade: that thou thro' years shalt still shine on In beauty, as in beauty art thou gone, Thou morn that knew no eve, Isabel. In beauty art thou gone; As some bright meteor gleams across the night, Gazed on by all, but understood by none, And dying by its own excess of light, Isabel.