The Broken Appointment

I sought at morn the beechen bower.
  Thy verdant grot;
  It came—it went—the promised hour—
  I found thee not.
  Light Zephyrs from the quivering boughs
  Soon brushed the transient dew;
  Then first I feared that Love's own vows
  Were transient too!
  At eve I sought the well known stream
  Where, wont to rove,
  We breathed so oft, by twilight gleam,
  Our vows of love;
  I stopped upon the pleasant brink,
  And saw the wave glide past;
  Ah me! I could not help but think
  Love glides as fast.
 
  Then all along the moonlight glen,
  So soft—so fair—
  I sought thy truant steps agen—
  Thou wert not there.
  The clouds held on their busy way
  Athwart the waning Moon;
  And such, I said, Love's fitful ray,
  And wanes as soon.
  Oh! I had culled for thee a wreath
  Of blossoms rare;
  But now each flowret droops beneath
  The chill night-air.
  'Tis past—long past—our latest hour,
  And yet thou art not nigh;
  Oh! Love, thou art indeed a flower
  Born but to die!