In vain the evening star I saw Above the silent vale, And vainly warbled in the grove The plaintive nightingale.
And you, ye furtive glances, bright, From gentle eyes that rove, The sweet, the gracious messages Of first immortal Love;
The soft, white hand, that tenderly My own hand seemed to woo; All, all your magic spells were vain, My torpor to subdue.
Of every pleasure quite bereft, Sad but of tranquil mien; A state of perfect littleness, Yet with a face serene;
Save for the lingering wish, indeed, In death to sink to rest, The force of all desire was spent In my exhausted breast.
As some poor, feeble wanderer, With age and sorrow bent, The April of my years, alas, Thus listlessly I spent;
Thus listlessly, thus wearily, Didst thou consume, O heart, Those golden days, ineffable, So swiftly that depart.
Who, from this heavy, heedless rest Awakens me again? What new, what magic power is this, I feel within me reign?
Ye motions sweet, ye images, Ye throbs, illusions blest, Ah, no,—ye are not then shut out Forever from this breast?
The glorious light of golden days Do ye again unfold? The old affections that I lost, Do I once more behold?