She lays down the book.

How true! how true!— but words are weak

In sympathy they give the soul,

To music — music, that can speak

All the heart's pain and dole;

Still making us remember most

The love we've lost, the love we've lost.

So weary am I, and so fain

To see his face, to feel his kiss

Thrill rapture through my soul again,

There is no hell like this.—

Ah, God! my God, were it not best

To give me rest, to give me rest?