That hand, of pure white tint,
Full fain a bell would swing
That nevermore may ring,
For the long rift within't.
But why then am I so immensely, so divinely happy?
Those eyes, dim, sweet, and sad, of him who once was mine!—I can no longer say whether it was all a dream, or not. My ice-plains once more, my ice-plains!—No—before these—still farther back! … still farther! Another, and a far different, sweet smell: a fresh delicious perfume—of meadows in flower, of willow catkins, of the lilacs in blossom.—Yellow marigolds! (O heavens, those strange far-ofif memories!) … O sunshine, O green fields, O adorable bygone days! … O my childhood!
Tears flow in torrents—tears for the sunshine, for life, for happiness.—Do not wipe my eyes, for they are dropping pearls! Why, brush those pearls away?
That hand, of pure white tint,
Oh, let it never swing
The bell which cannot ring
For the deep rift that's in't.
