Catch glimpses of his earlier years,
'And hear the sounds he knew of yore,
Old shufflings on the sanded floor,
Old knuckles tapping at the door?
'Yet still before him as he flies
One pallid form shall ever rise,
And, bodying forth in glassy eyes
'The vision of a vanished good,
Low peering through the tangled wood,
Shall freeze the current of his blood.'