LIII

Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here

      They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!

      A light is passed from the revolving year,

      And man, and woman; and what still is dear

      Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.

      The soft sky smiles,—the low wind whispers near:

      'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither,

No more let Life divide what Death can join together.