When thou art nigh, it seems

  A new creation round;

The sun hath fairer beams,

  The lute a softer sound.

Tho' thee alone I see,

  And hear alone thy sigh,

'Tis light, 'tis song to me,

  Tis all—when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought

  Of grief comes o'er my heart;

I only think—could aught

  But joy be where thou art?

Life seems a waste of breath,

  When far from thee I sigh;

And death—ay, even death

  Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.