Looking upon the wild broad-branch’d tree,

Whose mystic shadows, in the shape of a spire,

Relieve against the cold nocturnal sky—

Obsidian touch’d with the hue of sapphire—

I recall, in thoughts remote and serene,

That age which hath like argent revelry

Evanesced and silenced in the demesne

Of Spring, beneath a faded moon; I sigh,

For the dew of sadness sinks chill in this heart;

That age of fleeting dreams—the Age of Thee—

With brilliant fanfares, with aught that must depart—

Doth flash on me; down-looking, whisper I:

  “Thou, shrin’d in my deep, in truth hast ne’er gone;

  ’Tis I, ’tis mine, are changed—not thee, loved one.”