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“The day is gone, — dead for ever is that day!”
The day is gone, — dead for ever is that day!
No Nymphs and Shepherds hand in hand dance
Sweet in the flowery woods of early May,
Nor rose-lipt maiden casts an upward glance
Thro’ the trees high where must sing a Nightingale,
Her merry bard. Whitherward goest thou, O pallid Cynthia?
So dark, the water and the hill and the dale...
So lorn, so cheerless, the psaltery and the lyre...
Recall the vernal pleasance of yesteryear:
I yield these sighs for that ruinèd Eden lit by
The self-same moon... Shed no tear—oh, shed no tear!
For the fresh flowers will grow: Come, be happy!
Arise, arise, arise, thou bright Day-star;
I’ll go thro’ fire and flood in my wingèd car!