To the absent one

I miss thee when the kindling eastIs flecked at early dawn with red;And earth seems all a dreary waste,For joy from my sad heart hath fled.

I miss thee when the glowing dayHath shed her light on hill and glen,And when I feel its genial ray,How much, dear child, I miss thee then.

I miss thee in the twilight shade,When wandering through the meadow fair,And breathe thy name through every glade,But all in vain—thou art not there.