Yes, I muse! And if the dawning
Into daylight never grew,
If the glistering wings of morning
On the dry noon shook their dew,
If the fits of joy were longer,
Or the day were sooner done,
Or, perhaps, if hope were stronger,
No weak nursling of an earthly sun...
Pluck, pluck cypress, O pale maidens,
Dusk the hall with yew!
········
For a bound was set to meetings,
And the sombre day dragged on;
And the burst of joyful greetings,
And the joyful dawn, were gone.
For the eye grows filled with gazing,
And on raptures follow calms;
And those warm locks men were praising
Drooped, unbraided, on your listless arms.
Storms unsmoothed your folded valleys,
And made all your cedars frown;
Leaves were whirling in the alleys
Which your lovers wandered down.
—Sitting cheerless in your bowers,
The hands propping the sunk head,
Do they gall you, the long hours,
And the hungry thought that must be fed?
Is the pleasure that is tasted
