Of all sounds out of the soul of sorrow

These I would hear no more:

The cry of a new-born child at midnight;

The sound of a closing door,

That hushes the echo of departing feet

When the loneliness of the room

Is haunted with the silence

Of a dead god's tomb;

The songs of robins at the white dawn,

Since I may never see

The eyes they waked in the April

Now gone from me;

Music into whose essence entered

The soul of an hour:—

A face, a voice, the touch of a hand,

The scent of a flower.