Oh, quiet as
Soft rain on water shall it seem, and sad
Only as life’s most dulcet music is,
And dark as but a bride’s first dreaded night
Is dark; mild, mild as mirrored stars!
But you,—
You will forget me, Phaon; there, the sting,
The sorrow of the grave is not its green
And the salt tear upon its violet;
But the long years that bring the gray neglect,