We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone,
Which spake in Greek simplicty of thought,
And in the forms of gods and heroes wrought
My love gave me a passion-flower.
I nursed it well - so brief its hour!
'A maiden sat beneath a tree;
Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
And she sigheth heavily.
The clouds are marshalling across the sky,
Leaving their deepest tints upon yon range
Of soul-alluring hills. The breeze comes softly,
Saw ye first, arrayed in mist and cloud;
No cheerful lights softened your aspect bold;
A sullen gray, or green, more grave and cold,