O, love was made to mourn

O, Love was made to mourn,
Its home is not below;
While in this being's bourn,
It still must weep in woe.

Its home is in the skies;
A wanderer with men,
It turns its longing eyes
To find that home again.

But there are forms so bright,
So fair, they seem its own;
They glow, like stars at night,
When clouds away have flown.

And there we fondly turn,
And think, that love's pure fire
Will ever brightly burn,
The spirit's vestal pyre.

But oh! how short the light,
How soon it fades away!
And all our heart's delight,
Enchantments, — where are they?

The glow, the bloom, are fled,
O, never to return;
And hope to heaven has sped,
For love was made to mourn.
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