(MATTHEW ARNOLD)
He wandered from us long, oh, long ago,
Rare singer, with the note unsatisfied;
Into what charmèd wood, what shade star-eyed
With the wind's April darlings, none may know.
We lost him. Songless, one with seed to sow,
Keen-smiling toiler, came in place, and plied
His strength in furrowed field till eventide,
And passed to slumber when the sun was low.
But now,--as though Death spoke some mystic word
Solving a spell,--present to thought appears
The morn's estray, not him we saw but late;
And on his lips the strain that once we heard,
And in his hand, cool as with Springtime's tears,
The melancholy wood-flowers delicate.