With things that never pleased before;
Now every joy is fled below,
What future grief can touch me more?
“By many a shore, and many a sea,
Divided, loving all in vain,
The past, the future, fled to thee,
To bid us meet—no—ne’er again!
’Tis silent all; but on my ear
The well-remembered echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,