Those gales are dead—that dimpling sea is dark;
And cloudy ghosts clutch at each mist-like bark.
O wild, wild wind, where are the summer airs
That kissed the roses of the long-ago?
Taking them captive—swooned in blissful snares—
To let them perish. Now no roses blow
In the waste gardens thou art laying bare:
Where are my heart's bright roses, where, oh where?
Thou hast no answer, thou unpitying gale?
No gentle whisper from the past to me!