Ineffable desires And visions high and pure Rise in the happy soul, Lulled by the sound of cunning harmonies Whereon the spirit floats, As at his pleasure floats Some fearless swimmer over the deep sea; But if a discord strike The wounded sense, to naught All that fair paradise in an instant falls. Mortality! if thou Be wholly frail and vile, Be only dust and shadow, how canst thou So deeply feel? And if thou be In part divine, how can thy will and thought By things so poor and base So easily be awakenèd and quenched? Let us touch for the last time this pensive chord, and listen to its response of hopeless love. This poem, in which he turns to address the spirit of the poor child whom he loved boyishly at Recanati, is pathetic with the fact that possibly she alone ever reciprocated the tenderness with which his heart was filled. TO SYLVIA. Sylvia, dost thou remember In this that season of thy mortal being When from thine eyes shone beauty, In thy shy glances fugitive and smiling, And joyously and pensively the borders Of childhood thou did'st traverse? All day the quiet chambers And the ways near resounded To thy perpetual singing, When thou, intent upon some girlish labor, Sat'st utterly contented, With the fair future brightening in thy vision. It was the fragrant month of May, and ever Thus thou thy days beguiledst. I, leaving my fair studies, Leaving my manuscripts and toil-stained volumes, Wherein I spent the better Part of myself and of my young existence, Leaned sometimes idly from my father's windows, And listened to the music of thy singing, And to thy hand, that fleetly Ran o'er the threads of webs that thou wast weaving. I looked to the calm heavens, Unto the golden lanes and orchards, And unto the far sea and to the mountains; No mortal tongue may utter What in my heart I felt then. O Sylvia mine, what visions, What hopes, what hearts, we had in that far season! How fair and good before us Seemed human life and fortune! When I remember hope so great, beloved, An utter desolation And bitterness o'erwhelm me, And I return to mourn my evil fortune. O Nature, faithless Nature, Wherefore dost thou not give us That which thou promisest? Wherefore deceivest, With so great guile, thy children? Thou, ere the freshness of thy spring was withered. Stricken by thy fell malady, and vanquished, Did'st perish, O my darling! and the blossom Of thy years sawest; Thy heart was never melted At the sweet praise, now of thy raven tresses, Now of thy glances amorous and bashful; Never with thee the holiday-free maidens Reasoned of love and loving.