Ah heavenly joy! But who hath ever heard, Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever find Joy's language? There is neither speech nor word; Nought but itself to teach it to mankind. Scarce in our twenty thousand painful days We may touch something: but there lives--beyond The best of art, or nature's kindest phase-- The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond: The cause of beauty given to man's desires Writ in the expectancy of starry skies, The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires, The aim of all the good that here we prize; Which but to love, pursue and pray for well Maketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell. 66 My wearied heart, whenever, after all, Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete, When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat, And from all dear illusions disenthrall: However then thou shalt appear to call My fearful heart, since down at others' feet It bade me kneel so oft, I'll not retreat From thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall. And I shall say, 'Receive this loving heart Which err'd in sorrow only; and in sin Took no delight; but being forced apart From thee, without thee hoping thee to win, Most prized what most thou madest as thou art On earth, till heaven were open to enter in.' 67 Dreary was winter, wet with changeful sting Of clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost; And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring, That dallied with her promise till 'twas lost. A sunless and half-hearted summer drown'd The flowers in needful and unwelcom'd rain; And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown'd From fruitless orchards and unripen'd grain. But coud the skies of this most desolate year In its last month learn with our love to glow, Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphere Above the sunsets of five years ago: Of my great praise too part should be its own, Now reckon'd peerless for thy love alone. 68 Away now, lovely Muse, roam and be free: Our commerce ends for aye, thy task is done: Tho' to win thee I left all else unwon, Thou, whom I most have won, art not for me. My first desire, thou too forgone must be, Thou too, O much lamented now, tho' none Will turn to pity thy forsaken son, Nor thy divine sisters will weep for thee. None will weep for thee: thou return, O Muse, To thy Sicilian fields: I once have been On thy loved hills, and where thou first didst use Thy sweetly balanced rhyme, O thankless queen, Have pluck'd and wreath'd thy flowers; but do thou choose Some happier brow to wear thy garlands green. 69