As bursts of skylark song.
In vain, in vain!—too soon are felt
The wounds they cannot flee:
Better in childlike tears to melt,
Pouring my soul on thee!
Sweet face, that o’er my childhood shone!
Whence is thy power of change,
Thus ever shadowing back my own,
The rapid and the strange?
Whence are they charm’d—those earnest eyes?