Is it, then, regret for buried time
      That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
      And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?

Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
      The life re-orient out of dust
      Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.

Not all regret: the face will shine
      Upon me, while I muse alone;
      And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me
      For days of happy commune dead;
      Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.

Last modified 19 February 2010