Canto CXIV

Is it, then, regret for buried time

      That keenlier in sweet April wakes,

      And meets the year, and gives and takes

The colours of the crescent prime?

Not all: the songs, the stirring air,

      The life re-orient out of dust,

      Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust

In that which made the world so fair.

Not all regret: the face will shine

      Upon me, while I muse alone;

      The dear, dear voice that I have known

Will speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me

      For days of happy commune dead;

      Less yearning for the friendship fled,

Than some strong bond which is to be.