The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its core; The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no more.
The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep, My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne'er soothed into sleep.
The moon returns, and the spring; birds warble, trees burst into leaf; But Love, once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the grief.
In many a shape and fleeting apparition, Sublime in age or with clear morning eyes, Ever I seek thee, tantalizing Vision, Which beckoning flies.
Ever I seek Thee, O evasive Presence, Which on the far horizon's utmost verge, Like some wild star in luminous evanescence, Shoots o'er the surge.
Ever I seek Thy features ever flying, Which, ne'er beheld, I never can forget: Lightning which flames through love, and mimics dying In souls that set.
Ever I seek Thee through all clouds of error; As when the moon behind earth's shadow slips, She wears a momentary mask of terror In brief eclipse.
Ever I seek Thee, passionately yearning; Like altar fire on some forgotten fane, My life flames up irrevocably burning, And burnt in vain.
The songs of summer are over and past! The swallow's forsaken the dripping eaves; Ruined and black 'mid the sodden leaves The nests are rudely swung in the blast: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
The songs of summer are over and past! Woe's me for a music sweeter than theirs-- The quick, light bound of a step on the stairs, The greeting of lovers too sweet to last: And ever the wind like a soul in pain Knocks and knocks at the window-pane.
Between the sandhills and the sea A narrow strip of silver sand, Whereon a little maid doth stand, Who picks up shells continually, Between the sandhills and the sea.
Far as her wondering eyes can reach, A vastness heaving gray in gray To the frayed edges of the day Furls his red standard on the breach Between the sky-line and the beach.
The waters of the flowing tide Cast up the sea-pink shells and weed; She toys with shells, and doth not heed The ocean, which on every side Is closing round her vast and wide.
It creeps her way as if in play, Pink shells at her pink feet to cast; But now the wild waves hold her fast, And bear her off and melt away, A vastness heaving gray in gray.