  Here some time flowed my springs and sent a cry Of joy before them up the shining air, While morn was new, and heaven all blue and bare; Here dipped the swallow to a tenderer sky, And o’er my flowers lean’d some pure mystery Of liquid eyes and golden-glimmering hair; For which now, drouth and death, a bright despair, Shards, choking slag, the world’s dust small and dry. Yet turn not hence thy faithful foot, O thou, Diviner of my buried life; pace round, Poising the hazel-wand; believe and wait, Listen and lean; ah, listen! even now Stirrings and murmurings of the underground Prelude the flash and outbreak of my fate. |
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