Canto CXVII

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

      So quickly, not as one that weeps

      I come once more; the city sleeps;

I smell the meadow in the street;

I hear a chirp of birds; I see

      Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn

      A light-blue lane of early dawn,

And think of early days and thee,

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland

      And bright the friendship of thine eye;

      And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh

I take the pressure of thine hand.