One frosty night befell, and lo!
I find my summer days are o’er:
The heart bereaved, of why and how
Unknowing, knows that yet before
It had what e’en to Memory now
Returns no more, no more.
τὸ καλόν.
I have seen higher, holier things than these,
And therefore must to these refuse my heart,
Yet am I panting for a little ease;