That now lie withered as when summer ends!
Even the charm of sweet imagination
No more its soul-beguiling power retains,
But in its place stands life, mute, dread, appalling,
And over all a shade whose intonation
As if of grief that it alone remains
To some still shore afar is ever calling.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Juvenilia.