All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away—
Thrice bless’d to go!”
Yet sigh’d again that breeze-like Voice of grief—
“Thou art gone hence! Alas, that aught so brief
So loved should be!
Thou takest our summer hence!—the flower, the tone,
The music of our being, all in one,
Depart with thee!
“Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled!
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead—