The very sun with all his golden hair

Is ill at ease, and birth and death of day

Bring no relief; and darkly on my way

My memory comes,—the ghost of my Delight,—

To fret and fume at woes it cannot slay.

xix.

Oh, bid me smile again, as in the time

O

O

O

When all the breezes seem'd to make a chime,

And all the birds on all the woodland slopes

Had trills for me, and seem'd to guess the hopes

That warm'd my heart. O thou whom I adore!

How proud were I,—though wounded bitter-sore

By shafts of doubt,—if, in default of love

I could but win thy friendship as of yore.

xx.

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