The spirit he saw not, he could not hear The comforting word she spake in his ear: His heart in the grave with her mouldering clay No welcome gave—and she fled away. 10 My bed and pillow are cold, My heart is faint with dread, The air hath an odour of mould, I dream I lie with the dead: I cannot move, O come to me, love, Or else I am dead. The feet I hear on the floor Tread heavily overhead: O Love, come down to the door, Come, Love, come, ere I be dead: Make shine thy light, O Love, in the night; Or else I am dead. 11 O thou unfaithful, still as ever dearest, That in thy beauty to my eyes appearest, In fancy rising now to re-awaken My love unshaken; All thou’st forgotten, but no change can free thee, No hate unmake thee; as thou wert I see thee, And am contented, eye from fond eye meeting Its ample greeting. O thou my star of stars, among things wholly Devoted, sacred, dim and melancholy, The only joy of all the joys I cherished That hast not perished, Why now on others squand’rest thou the treasure, That to be jealous of is still my pleasure: As still I dream ’tis me whom thou invitest, Me thou delightest? But day by day my joy hath feebler being, The fading picture tires my painful seeing, And faery fancy leaves her habitation To desolation. Of two things open left for lovers parted ’Twas thine to scorn the past and go lighthearted: But I would ever dream I still possess it, And thus caress it. 12 Thou didst delight my eyes: Yet who am I? nor first Nor last nor best, that durst Once dream of thee for prize; Nor this the only time Thou shalt set love to rhyme. Thou didst delight my ear: Ah! little praise; thy voice Makes other hearts rejoice, Makes all ears glad that hear; And short my joy: but yet, O song, do not forget. For what wert thou to me? How shall I say? The moon, That poured her midnight noon Upon his wrecking sea;— A sail, that for a day Has cheered the castaway. 13 Joy, sweetest lifeborn joy, where dost thou dwell? Upon the formless moments of our being Flitting, to mock the ear that heareth well, To escape the trainèd eye that strains in seeing, Dost thou fly with us whither we are fleeing; Or home in our creations, to withstand Blackwingèd death, that slays the making hand?