Say what the burden of that patient strain
Which answer seeketh none, but ever forth
Is poured, and by itself its own refrain,
Still echo’d, findeth—save that from the North
Responsive plainings through the leafless tree
Mingle, methinks, with thine in sympathy.
It cannot but be sad—a low-tuned sigh
For lost delights thy callow youth once knew,
When all the grove was blossom, all the sky
A smile above thee, and the glad hours flew