1   There is a mystic thread of life      So dearly wreath’d with mine alone,   That Destiny’s relentless knife      At once must sever both, or none. 2   There is a Form on which these eyes      Have fondly gazed with such delight—   By day, that Form their joy supplies,      And Dreams restore it, through the night. 3   There is a Voice whose tones inspire      Such softened feelings in my breast,   I would not hear a Seraph Choir,      Unless that voice could join the rest. 4   There is a Face whose Blushes tell      Affection’s tale upon the cheek,   But pallid at our fond farewell,      Proclaims more love than words can speak. 5   There is a Lip, which mine has prest,      But none had ever prest before;   It vowed to make me sweetly blest,      That mine alone should press it more. 6   There is a Bosom all my own,      Has pillow’d oft this aching head,   A Mouth which smiles on me alone,      An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed. 7   There are two Hearts whose movements thrill,      In unison so closely sweet,   That Pulse to Pulse responsive still      They Both must heave, or cease to beat. 8   There are two Souls, whose equal flow      In gentle stream so calmly run,   That when they part—they part?—ah no!      They cannot part—those Souls are One.