Do I brighten at your sorrow,
O sweet pleaders? doth my lot
Find assurance in to-morrow
Of one joy which you have not?
Oh, speak once, and shame my sadness!
Let this sobbing, Phrygian strain,
Mocked and baffled by your gladness,
Mar the music of your feasts in vain!
········
Scent, and song, and light, and flowers!
Gust on gust, the harsh winds blow—
Come, bind up those ringlet showers!
Roses for that dreaming brow!
Come, once more that ancient lightness,
Glancing feet, and eager eyes!
Let your broad lamps flash the brightness
Which the sorrow-stricken day denies.
Through black depths of serried shadows,
Up cold aisles of buried glade;
In the mist of river-meadows
Where the looming deer are laid;
From your dazzled windows streaming,
From your humming festal room,
Deep and far, a broken gleaming
Reels and shivers on the ruffled gloom.
Where I stand, the grass is glowing:
Doubtless you are passing fair!
But I hear the north wind blowing,
And I feel the cold night-air.
