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THERE’S a regret that from my bosom aye Wrings forth a dirgy sweetness, like a rain Of deathward love; that ever in my brain Uttereth such tones as in some foregone way Seem gathered from the harmonies that start Into the dayspring, when some rarest view Unveileth its Tempèan grace anew To meet the sun—the great world’s fervent heart. ’Tis that, though living in his tuneful day, My boyhood might not see the gentle smile, Nor hear the voice of Shelley; that away His soul had journeyed, ere I might beguile In my warm youth, by some fraternal lay, One thought of his towards this may native isle. |