Whither art thou, O belovèd, turned aside?
As the Day bereft of Phœbus, so am I,
Pale as thy white garden-rose in this tide,
Parted from thee, in mists of idle misery.
No more can I turn the leaves of that dear
Book that I loved, with the well-memoried mood
Like morns born of the gentle south, serene and clear;
No more can I, with eyes that dreamy lashes hood,
Lean upon heaped-up flowers soft as aëreal pile;
No more can I verse by the lake of yore,
Where my thoughts, as wild vines, for a while
Did bud and twine... No more—oh, nevermore!
  Ere ’tis time to sail through that bounding main,
  With this pen, I tell my sorrow again.