She is not thee

She is not thee, O life—
And yet her presence I feel in this serene garden,
Where the setting sun reflects his incorporeal fire
Upon the myriad leaves that venerate his light.

She is not thee, O sun—
And yet through thy beams she floods the life in me;
Even the trees that exult under thy bracing warmth,
Paint her portrait in light, and radiate with love.

She is not thee, O lake—
And yet each ripple that glides over thy secret depths
Invites in me sweet visions of her lovely face;
And so I fancy this garden were the iris of the lake,
The lake, glistening bright, the pupil of her eye.