Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
Might feel the flush and life of spring—
And thou wert pass’d away.
But then, e’en then, a nobler thought
O’er my vain sadness came;
Th’ immortal spirit woke, and wrought
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,