That voice to hear, if, for the last time, I Might catch the accents from those lovely lips; The voice alone; all else forever lost!
How many vulgar tones my doubtful ear Would smite, with deep disgust inspiring me, With doubt tormented, holding hard my breath!
And when, at last, that voice into my heart Descended, passing sweet, and when the sound Of horses and of wheels had died away;
In utter desolation, then, my head I in my pillow buried, closed my eyes, And pressed my hand against my heart, and sighed.
Then, listlessly, my trembling knees across The silent chamber dragging, I exclaimed, “Nothing on earth can interest me more!”
The bitter recollection cherishing Within my breast, to every voice my heart, To every face, insensible remained.
Long I remained in hopeless sorrow drowned; As when the heavens far and wide their showers Incessant pour upon the fields around.
Nor had I, Love, thy cruel power known, A boy of eighteen summers flown, until That day, when I thy bitter lesson learned;
When I each pleasure held in scorn, nor cared The shining stars to see, or meadows green, Or felt the charm of holy morning light;
The love of glory, too, no longer found An echo in my irresponsive breast, That, once, the love of beauty with it shared.