And the inborn sound hath a prophet’s tone,
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone.
“We return!—we return!—we return no more!”
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o’er?
When the passionate soul of the night-bird’s lay
Hath died from the summer woods away?
When the glory from sunset’s robe hath pass’d,
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast?
No! It is not the rose that returns no more;—
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore;