Lingers no essence of the olden bliss?
Doth not my breath revive the ancient fire,
And fill the shrunken veins of dead desire?
I am the child of all thy joys; ere Death
Swallowed them up each left with me some breath,
Some drop of blood, some accent, or some look,
A token from each fleeting hour I took;
In me thy vanished raptures all unite
The perfect fruit of all thy past delight.
Long have I sought thee, now that thou art found,