And sadder than of yore.
It comes afar, from that belovèd place,
And that belovèd hour, 10
When life hung ripening in love’s golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.
A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
A lark sings o’er my head,
Drowned in the sky—O pass, ye visions, pass, 15
I would that I were dead!—
Why hast thou opened that forbidden door