Nay, Violet-Crowned, once in our time we loved,
The hand of that love’s ghost shall lead you back.
Life, without you—life is an empty nest!
A grove with god and altar lost! A lute
Whereon no lonely fingers ever stray.
When in the moonlight Philomela mourned
Sad-throated for poor murdered Itylus,
And when the day-birds woke the dewy lawn
And white the sunlight fell across my bed
And all the dim world turned to gold again,—