The day is gone, — dead for ever is that day!

No Nymphs and Shepherds hand in hand dance

Sweet in the flowery woods of early May,

Nor rose-lipt maiden casts an upward glance

Thro’ the trees high where must sing a Nightingale,

Her merry bard. Whitherward goest thou, O pallid Cynthia?

So dark, the water and the hill and the dale...

So lorn, so cheerless, the psaltery and the lyre...

Recall the vernal pleasance of yesteryear:

I yield these sighs for that ruinèd Eden lit by

The self-same moon... Shed no tear—oh, shed no tear!

For the fresh flowers will grow: Come, be happy!

Arise, arise, arise, thou bright Day-star;

I’ll go thro’ fire and flood in my wingèd car!