But they, when winds are weary of their wrath,
Shall fill our groves once more, and glad the woodland path.
But what new Spring shall breathe upon thy tomb
Or summon back friends wintry Death has banished?
They grow enamored of those bowers of bloom
To which they soared when from our side they vanished,
And ne’er return, or, haply so, unseen—
Dwelling in Memory’s dreams, pure, changeless, and serene.
Perchance we err, for, though no mortal eye
May look on Immortality, yet they