  So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old! And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls A lute lies broken and a flower falls; Love's house is empty and his hearth is cold. Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told. In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls, Beauty decays; and on their pedestals Dreams crumble, and th' immortal gods are mould. Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone, One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past— The voice of Memory, that stills to stone The soul that hears; the mind that, utterly lost, Before its beautiful presence stands aghast. |
|
