Smiling on the sun that cheer'd us, Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again: Never shaken, save by accents From a tongue that was not free, As the modest blossom trembles At the wooing of the bee. O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in, All the words we spoke in truth. Sever'd--were it sever'd only By an idle thought of strife, Such as time might knit together; Not the broken chord of life! O my heart! that once so truly Kept another's time and tune, Heart, that kindled in the spring-tide, Look around thee in the noon. Where are they who gave the impulse To thy earliest thought and flow? Look around the ruin'd garden-- All are wither'd, dropp'd, or low! Seek the birth-place of the lily, Dearer to the boyish dream Than the golden cups of Eden, Floating on its slumbrous stream; Never more shalt thou behold her-- She, the noblest, fairest, best: She that rose in fullest beauty, Like a queen, above the rest. Only still I keep her image As a thought that cannot die, He who raised the shade of Helen Had no greater power than I. O! I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain; All I loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again. Blow, for ever blow, ye breezes, Warmly as ye did before! Bloom again, ye happy gardens, With the radiant tints of yore! Warble out in spray and thicket, All ye choristers unseen, Let the leafy woodland echo With an anthem to its queen! Lo! she cometh in her beauty, Stately with a Juno grace, Raven locks, Madonna-braided O'er her sweet and blushing face: Eyes of deepest violet, beaming With the love that knows not shame,-- Lips, that thrill my inmost being With the utterance of a name. And I bend the knee before her, As a captive ought to bow,-- Pray thee, listen to my pleading, Sovereign of my soul art thou! O my dear and gentle lady, Let me show thee all my pain, Ere the words that late were prison'd Sink into my heart again. Love, they say, is very fearful Ere its curtain be withdrawn, Trembling at the thought of error As the shadows scare the fawn. Love hath bound me to thee, lady, Since the well-remember'd day When I first beheld thee coming In the light of lustrous May. Not a word I dared to utter-- More than he who, long ago, Saw the heavenly shapes descending Over Ida's slopes of snow: When a low and solemn music Floated through the listening grove, And the throstle's song was silenced, And the doling of the dove: