Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,
Never a flower swung sweet to my face,
Never a heart that was touched of God,
But taught me its grace.
Off, from my lids then a moment yet,
Fingering Death, for again I must see
Miraged by memory all that I met
Under Time's lee.
There!... I'm a child again—fair, so fair!
Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?
Speak they not vision, song, frenzy to dare,
That still in me yearn?...
Youth! my wild youth!—O, blood of my heart,
Still you can answer with whirling the thought!
Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,
Joyous, distraught!...
Love, and her face again! there by the wood!—
Come thou invisible Dark with thy mask!
Shall I not learn if she lives? and could
I more of thee ask?...
Turn me away from the ashen west,
Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.
Something is stealing like light from my breast—
Soul from its husk ...
Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead,
Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,
Bury me, near to the haunting tread
Of life that o'errolls.