I Found Her Not

By Thomas Moore

I found her not -- the chamber seem'd
Like some divinely-haunted place,
Where fairy forms had lately beam'd,
And left behind their odorous trace.

It felt as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute.
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there!

O Nea! Nea! where art thou?
In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
And my soul dies of wanting thee.