That sway, though viewless, this world of ours!
Have I not lived midst these lonely dells,
And loved, and sorrow’d, and heard farewells,
And learn’d in my own deep soul to look,
And tremble before that mysterious book?
Have I not, under these whispering leaves,
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves?
Shadows—yet unto which life seem’d bound;
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Must I not hear what thou hearest not,