Not as lamenting its lost harmonies,
Not as still fair through perfect penitence,
But as unconscious in first innocence—
Token of time thou art when sinless eyes
Were homes for cloudless thoughts divinely wise.
All things that God found good seem yet to fill
The few sweet notes that triumph in thy trill;
All things that yet are good and purely fair
Give unto thee their happy grace to wear.
Sweet speech art thou for sunset-lighted hill;