The jasmine’s breath, the murmur of the bee;

Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom!

They speak of love, of summer, and of thee,

Too much—and death is here!

Doth our own spring make happy music now,

From the old beech-roots flashing into day?

Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow?

Alas! vain thoughts! that fondly thus can stray

From the dread hour so near!

If I could but draw courage from the light