And all is changed, and I am not the same,

Nought speaks of self, save some unreal name.

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XXII.

And can I rest the same and thou not here,

Whose essence flowed through, new-creating all?

Fancy dreamt not, thou wast indeed so dear,

Thy very presence made its splendour’s pall:

I held thee, as the substance of my hope,

The lovelier part of what to me belonged,

The very essence, and the eternal scope,

For which my thought and being were prolonged:

Witness thou heaven, what joy have I e’er found

In aught, that unto hope delightful seems,

Save when joy held us both in larger bound?

Thou wast the source of all young longing dreams:

If such my joy, how bitter sorrow’s blow,

That christens thy once haunts by terms of woe?

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