 | Poems (1857) |  |
NO MORE.
I
No more, dear valley of my youth,I breathe thy free inspiring air;—
Romance hath yielded now to Truth,
Dark droop the hopes that once bloomed fair!
The poetry of soul that threw
Its fine and rich enchantment o'er
The valley, and each scene I knew,
Is felt no more!
II
No more, beside the clustering vine,My sister, may'st thou smile and sing;—
Yet, oh! if ever song's divine
It is when Memory wreathes the string!—
I left thee, but with looks that gave
No coming sorrow to deplore;—
And now—I weep above thy grave!—
Thou sing'st no more!—
185
III
It is not that the Vale is changed,The change is in my own sad heart;
Still smile the very scenes we ranged,
But where's the charm they could impart?
Ah, thus looks youth to Man as born
For all that nobler minds adore;
And man looks back to Youth's brief morn
And smiles no more!
| Poems (1857) | |