Childe Harold.
The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor’s for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no more;
Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?
The sudden images of vanish’d things,
That o’er the spirit flash, we know not why;
Tones from some broken harp’s deserted strings,