Of my despair. How sad, how dark to me

All things have grown since thou and I were friends!

viii.

[43] 

[43]

It is the fault of thy despotic glance,

I

I

I

It is the memory of a day's romance

When, true to thee, though taunted for my truth,

I dared to solemnise the joys of youth

In one wild chant. It is thy fault, I say!

Thy piteous fault that, on the verge of May,

I lost the right to live, as heretofore,

Untouched by doubt from day to brightening day.

ix.

O Summer's Pride! I loved thee from the first,

O

O

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