And forehead flushing warm,
I would have led thee through the summer land
Of my young love, and past my dreams of Death!
In thee, immortal Brother! had I found
That voice of Earth for which my spirit pines;
The awful speech of Rome’s sepulchral ground,
The dusky hymn of Vallambrosa’s pines!
From thee the noise of ocean would have taken
A grand defiance round the moveless shores,
And vocal grown the mountain’s silent head.