Thou that hast travelled far away,
In lands beyond the sea,
Wilt understand me, when I say
What there has come to me.
In chambers dim thou wilt have wrought,
With no one by, to cheer,
And trod the downward paths of thought,
In solitude and fear;
Nor till the weary day was o’er,
Into the air have fled
From thought which could delight no more,
From books whose power was dead;
What time perchance the drooping day
With burning vapour fills
The deep recesses far away
Of all the golden hills:
Or later, when the twilight blends
All hues, or when the moon
Into the ocean depths descends,
A wavering column, down.
Then hast not thou in spirit leapt,
Emerging from thy gloom,
Like one who unawares o’erstept
The barriers of a tomb.
And in thine exultation cried—
Of gladness having fill,
And in it being glorified—
“The world is beauteous still!”