George D. Prentice (1802–1870)

I THINK of thee, when morning springs

From sleep with plumage bathed in dew,

And, like a young bird, lifts her wings

Of gladness on the welkin blue.

And when, at noon, the breath of love,

O’er flower and stream is wandering free,

And sent in music from the grove,

I think of thee—I think of thee.

I think of thee, when soft and wide

The evening spreads her robes of light,

And, like a young and timid bride,

Sits blushing in the arms of Night.

And when the moon’s sweet crescent springs

In light o’er heaven’s deep, waveless sea,

And stars are forth, like blessed things,

I think of thee—I think of thee.

I think of thee;—that eye of flame,

Those tresses falling bright and free,

That brow where “Beauty writes her name,”

On fancy rush;—I think of thee.