Where breathes who bloomless left the meadows!
She!
Grave, in the wintriness of thee?
Her laughter might have thrilled the dead,
So real she seemed, so white and red:
Gone, and the aching world she widows
With me!
O, of her presence any rumour,
Spring,
News of her sweetness canst thou bring?
In that mysterious underground
What charm, what fire, what fragrance bound?
There, from whence bursts the whole bright summer
On wing!
Her glorious kinsfolk, that forsook us,
Wake:
Each lily, for the light's own sake.
But she, more strong, more swift to bloom,
Kept captive in the cold earth's gloom,
Will she not with the beaming crocus
Upbreak?
Too well thy heart, bereaved lover,
Knows,
'Tis dust that did her bloom compose:
And she, so vivid and so sweet,
Is now a name, an image fleet;
All that the stars remember of her,
A rose!