The fruitless wish for presences once dear.
No fairer eve e'er blessed a poet's vision;
No softer airs e'er kissed a fevered brow;
No scene more truly could be called Elysian,
Than this which holds my gaze enchanted now.
And yet I pine;—this beautiful completeness
Is incomplete, to my desiring heart;
'Tis Beauty's form, without her soul of sweetness—
The pure, but chiseled loveliness of art.
There is no longer pleasure in emotion.