III

And now, in these unsummer'd skies

The summer bird is still,

Far off a phantom cuckoo cries

From out a phantom hill;

And thro' this midnight breaks the sun

Of sixty years away,

The light of days when life begun,

The days that seem to-day,

When all my griefs were shared with thee,

As all my hopes were thine—

As all thou wert was one with me,

May all thou art be mine!