Song from Heine

I SCANNED her picture dreaming, Till each dear line and hue Was imaged, to my seeming, As if it lived anew.

Her lips began to borrow Their former wondrous smile; Her fair eyes, faint with sorrow, Grew sparkling as erstwhile.

Such tears as often ran not Ran then, my love, for thee; And O, believe I cannot That thou are lost to me!