As if the keenest wind came hotly there.
Aye, even with the elemental wrath,
His troubled spirit a communion hath.
Then stalk before his view in mournful maze,
Unburied phantoms of departed days;
With withered hopes around them wildly flung,
Like flowers to which no breath of odor clung;
Nor hue of brightness—such as o’er the dead
The gifts of fond affection vainly shed
Become, ere the same morn that saw them bloom, hath fled.