Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
XXVIII. Loneliness
‘I found her not’
By Thomas Moore (1779–1852)
I FOUND her not—the chamber seem’d
Like some divinely haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beam’d,
  And left behind their odorous trace!
It felt, as if her lips had shed        5
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note’s luxurious death,        10
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there….

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