But thou, whose breath, the music of my life,
Murmurs its sweetness, never uninhaled;
Now, the last time, glance o’er my spirit’s strife,
The bliss, whose close must be so soon bewailed.
I must depart, and think those hours were bless’d,
Long since, so pregnant of departing joy,
And wonder at the earth, I lightly press’d,
Nor knew what reverence it should once enjoy:
The crescent of thy spring shall flower as brightly
As though mine eyes stood sentinels o’er its growth;
And thou shall carol on thy pathway lightly,
Transplanting summer into winter wroth.
I’ll ponder still, where’er adversely hurled,
Thy words, which marr’d the change which makes the world.