I sleep with thee, and wake with thee, 
And yet thou art not there; 
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee, 
And press the common air. 
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine 
When thou art out of sight; 
My lips are always touching thine 
At morning, noon, and night. 

I think and speak of other things 
To keep my mind at rest, 
But still to thee my memory clings 
Like love in woman's breast. 
I hide it from the world's wide eye 
And think and speak contrary, 
But soft the wind comes from the sky 
And whispers tales of Mary. 

The night-wind whispers in my ear, 
The moon shines on my face; 
The burden still of chilling fear 
I find in every place. 
The breeze is whispering in the bush, 
And the leaves fall from the tree, 
All sighing on, and will not hush, 
Some pleasant tales of thee.