II

How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?

      How came ye muffled in so hush a mask?

Was it a silent deep-disguised plot

      To steal away, and leave without a task

My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;

      The blissful cloud of summer-indolence

            Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;

Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:

      O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense

            Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?