The halcyon again
Contented broods beside the quiet main;
The ringdove tells her wound
With throbbing breast, and undulating sound
Which still, thy passion wronging,
Awakes in thee the wilder, lonelier longing.
And still my buried heart reflects thy pain!
Of yore I had a dream:
I thought—the awful sentinel asleep—
Thou, with that lyre divine, supreme,
Which first drew Argo downward to the deep,
Entering here, where chains are never riven,
Had with thy golden strain, Apollo given,
Taught Dis, the pitiless, himself, to weep:
I had a dream of yore:
I thought love, mightier than death,
Wide opened the inexorable door,
And offered me pure draughts of sun-warmed breath.
I saw thy form; trembling, I seemed to follow,—
When, sudden, to these rayless caverns hollow
Fate caught me back—thee to behold no more!
·········
Yet still I wait for thee!
And surely thou wilt come again to me!
The hours delay; I make no moan,—
