And when, with weariness oppressed, I sink in spite of you to rest, Your image, like a lovely sprite, Haunts me in dreams through half the night.
I wake upon the autumn morn To find the sunrise hardly born, And in the sky a soft pale blue, And in my heart your image true.
When out I walk to take the air, Your image is for ever there, Among the woods that lose their leaves, Or where the North Sea sadly heaves.
By what enchantment shall be laid This ghost, which does not make afraid, But vexes with dim loveliness And many a shadowy caress?
There is no other way I know But unto you forthwith to go, That I may look upon the maid Whereof that other is the shade.
As the strong sun puts out the moon, Whose borrowed rays are all his own, So, in your living presence, dies The phantom kindled at your eyes.
By this most blessed spell, each day The vexing ghost awhile I lay. Yet am I glad to know that when I leave you it will rise again.
Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went away You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay, The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea Come back to St. Andrews--St. Andrews and me.