And shadow sweet fantasy.
I will tell thee of some that have fled away
Since last we saw thy face;
And some that are gone from the sheeny day
To the lonesome burial-place.
And of joys, like a string of pearls unstrung—
Like treasured flowers to the fierce wind flung,
That sleep with the buried grace.
O, I woo thee, Spring, and I wed thee, Spring,
To a sadly-thoughted lay,