I envy those dead souls no touch can thrill;
Who—"painted ships upon a painted ocean,"—
Seem to be moved, yet are forever still.
Where are they fled?—they whose delightful voices,
Whose very footsteps had a charmed fall:
No more, no more their sound my heart rejoices:
Change, death, and distance part me now from all.
And this fair evening, with remembrance teeming,
Pierces my soul with every sharp regret;
The sweetest beauty saddens to my seeming,