[Illustration: H]
How often, flying to my dim retreat,
From others and if may be my own soul,
I saw the slow tears beat my breast and feet
And touch the tender grass! How often whole
Soft Summer days, O Life! your own days, sweet
And long and gay, I trod by ways of dole,
Seeking my high delight, whom Death’s deceit
Had seized on where his lethal waters roll.
Goddess or nymph, in some immortal guise,
I saw her come from Sorga’s clearest deeps
To sit upon the bank; with hungry eyes
I watched her tread the field-flowers where they creep,
Which as from mortal lady’s foot did rise;
And to her eyes a grief for me did leap.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]