Will the fire joy hath wasted,
Mused on, warm the heart anew?
—Or, are those old thoughts returning,
Guests the dull sense never knew,
Stars, set deep, yet inly burning,
Germs, your untrimmed passion overgrew?
Once, like us, you took your station,
Watchers for a purer fire;
But you drooped in expectation,
And you wearied in desire.
When the first rose flush was steeping
All the frore peak's awful crown,
Shepherds say, they found you sleeping
In some windless valley, farther down.
Then you wept, and slowly raising
Your dozed eyelids, sought again,
Half in doubt, they say, and gazing
Sadly back, the seats of men;
Snatched a turbid inspiration
From some transient earthly sun,
And proclaimed your vain ovation
For those mimic raptures you had won...
········
With a sad, majestic motion,
With a stately, slow surprise,
From their earthward-bound devotion
Lifting up your languid eyes—
Would you freeze my louder boldness,
Dumbly smiling as you go,
One faint frown of distant coldness
Flitting fast across each marble brow?
