IX.
Once my soul died within me. What had thrown
That sickness o’er it? Even a passing thought
Of a clear spring, whose side, with flowers o’ergrown,
Fondly and oft my boyish steps had sought!
Perchance the damp roof’s water-drops that fell
Just then, low tinkling through my vaulted cell,
Intensely heard amidst the stillness, caught
Some tone from memory, of the music, welling
Ever with that fresh rill, from its deep rocky dwelling.