The passions which have torn me would have died;
I had not suffered, and thou hadst not sighed.
I feel almost at times as I have felt
In happy childhood; trees, and flowers and brooks
Which do remember me of where I dwelt
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books,
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
My heart with recognition of their looks;
Till even at moments I have thought to see
Some living thing to love—but none like thee.