Without nor cloud, nor grief, nor strife—
Like pensile stars whose golden light
Meets on the sable bridge of night
And glows with such a wedded beam
In calm or stormy weather,
That men when looking upwards deem
They are but one, for thus they seem,
So close they shine together.
Ha! whence this change? My Ila! why
That icy mien and tearful eye?