Of spring fulfill’d! The dead! whom call we so?
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know
Things wrapt from us! Away! within me pent,
That which is barr’d from its own element
Still droops or struggles! But the day will come—
Over the deep the free bird finds its home;
And the stream lingers midst the rocks, yet greets
The sea at last; and the wing’d flower-seed meets
A soil to rest in: shall not I, too, be,
My spirit-love! upborne to dwell with thee?