I thought that in me utterly
In life's most fragrant flower
The sweet woes had lost power,
Born in my early years.
The sweet woes and the tenderest
Sighs of the heart profound,
All things whereby a ground
For joy in life appears.
How many tears and murmurings
Did from my new state flow,
When I my heart of snow
Discovered void of pain!
Gone was the wonted agony,
And love I could not hold,
And this my bosom cold
Gave sighing up as vain.
I wept that life so desolate
And waste for me was made,
The earth in gloom arrayed,
Closed in eternal frost;
The day forlorn, the taciturn
Night more obscure and lone;
For me no kind moon shone;
The stars in Heaven were lost.
But of that grief the origin
In old affection lay;
Within my bosom's sway
My heart was still alive.
Yet for the wonted images
The weary fancy sighed;
My sorrow's boundless tide
With pain did ever strive.
Ere long in me that agony
Of pain was wholly spent,
And further to lament
I had no courage left.
I lay all senseless and amazed,
I did not ask for balm;
As though in death's last calm,
My heart in twain was cleft.
I was from him how different,
In whom did ardours shine,
Who errors all divine
Fed in his soul of yore!
The early swallow vigilant,
Who near the windows gay
Salutes the rising day,
Moved this my heart no more;
Nor did the Autumn pale and sere
Where lonely I might dwell;
Nor did the evening bell;
Nor sun that sought the main.
In vain I saw bright Hesperus
Shine in celestial round,
In vain the valleys sound
With nightingale's sweet pain.
And ye, O eyes of tenderness
And glances full of joy,
Ye, unto lovers coy
First love that never dies;
And snowy hand of whitest grace
That liest in my own;
In vain your power is shown,
My gloomy mood ne'er flies.
Bereft of every happiness,
Sad, but not tempest-torn,
I was not all forlorn,
My brow became serene.
I should have murmured for the end
Of this my life of woe,
If in me long ago
Dead had desire not been.
As in old age decrepitude
Makes life disprized and bare,
My years of youth most fair
Thus, thus alone were spent;
'Twas thus the days ineffable
Thou, O my heart, didst live,
Days that short joyaunce give,
By Heaven to us lent.
Who the obscure, inglorious
Repose bids me now miss?
What virtue new is this,
This that in me I find?
Emotions sweet, imaginings
Erroneous and sublime,
Are ye not for all time
The exiles of my mind?
Are ye in truth the only ray
Of these my sable years,
The loves I lost with tears
In a more tender age?
Though on the sky or verdant meads
Or where I list, I gaze,
Grief doth my soul amaze,
And yet delights assuage.
And with my musing sympathize
The plains, the woods and hills;
My heart doth hear the rills,
And murmur of the sea.
Who after such forgetfulness
Gives me the gift of tears?
How is it the earth appears
So changed and new to me?
Perchance fair Hope, O weary heart,
Hath granted thee a smile?
Ah! Hope, so full of guile,
I'll ne'er again behold.
My fond delusions and desires
None else than Nature gave,
My native ardour brave
Grief did in bondage hold,
Though not destroy: 'twas unsubdued
By misery and fate,
Nor did it death await
From Truth's unhallowed gaze.
To my divine imagining
I know that she is strange;
I know that Nature's range
Lies far from Mercy's ways;
That not for weal solicitous
She is, for life alone;
She bids us live to groan,
For nothing else she cares.
I know that the unfortunate
No pity find below,
That from the sight of woe
Men hurry unawares;
That this our age so reprobate
Scorns virtue and renown;
That glory fails to crown
The noble, learned toil.
And you, ye eyes so tremulous,
Ye glances all divine,
I know you idly shine,
And far from love recoil.
There is no wondrous, intimate
Affection in your gaze;
No spark ere long to blaze,
Lies in that snowy breast;
For it doth mock the tenderest
Emotion and desire;
And a celestial fire
By deep scorn is distrest.
And yet in me I feel revive
The dear illusions known:
My soul looks on its own
Sensations with surprise.
From thee, my heart, this last and fair
Spirit and inborn fire,
All comforts in my dire
Grief, but from thee arise.
I feel my spirit is not dowered,
Though lofty, sweet, and pure,
By Nature, Fortune's lure,
The world, or loveliness:
But if thou livest, O, ill-starred,
And yieldest not to Fate,
I'll ne'er as cruel hate
Who gave me life's distress.