It is not that my lot is low

It is not that my lot is low, That bids the silent tear to flow, It is not grief that bids me moan, It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home ; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs, With hallowed airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone, And sighs that it is all alone.

The woods and winds with sudden wail Tell all the same unvaried tale ; I've none to smile when I am free, And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view, That thinks on me and loves me too ; I start ! and when the vision's flown, I weep that I am all alone.