In airy dreams fond fancy flies,
   My absent love to see,
And with the early dawn I rise,
   Dear youth, to think of thee.

How swiftly flew the rosy hours,
   When hope and love were new;
Sweet was the time as op'ning flowers,
   But ah! 'twas transient too.

The moments now move slowly on,
   Until thy wish'd return;
I count them pensive and alone,
   As in the shades I mourn.

Return, return, my love, and charm
   Each anxious care to rest;
Thy voice shall every doubt disarm,
   And soothe my troubled breast.


	Anne Hunter   (1742 - 1821)