To Helene

I sent a ring—a little band  
 Of emerald and ruby stone,  
And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,  
 Tell thee sweet tales of one  
 Whose constant memory  
 Was full of loveliness, and thee.  
 
A shell was graven on its gold,—  
 'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings—  
To Helene once it would have told  
 More than was ever told by rings:  
 But now all 's past and gone,  
 Her love is buried with that stone.  
 
Thou shalt not see the tears that start  
 From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled;  
Thou shalt not know the beating heart,  
 Ever a victim and a child:  
 Yet Helene, love, believe  
 The heart that never could deceive.  
 
I'll hear thy voice of melody  
 In the sweet whispers of the air;  
I'll see the brightness of thine eye  
 In the blue evening's dewy star;  
 In crystal streams thy purity;  
 And look on Heaven to look on thee.