O Eden of our childhood, Innocence!
How did thy ardour paint the ugly world;
Making it amiable, void of all pretence;
With roses garlanded with dew be-pearl’d
The world’s not chang’d, ’tis only thou, art gone;
The music’s wanting to the quick-breathing shell;
The aroma fails where it hath dwelt so long;
The flash divine is dead, or fades to Hell;
But, thou wast gentle, calm, silent, and strong;
A truth, too real, to be here conceiv’d:
And we are parted,—be it not for long,
That thou art somewhere, may be well believed.
O let me find thee; if frail life forbid,
In the universe of thee, let life be hid.