Ah, but to be
Once more alone with thee!
What treasure I would give
Again to live
As in the days when thou didst gladden me!
I am grown old:
In this thought-burdened brain,
In each still beating vein,
The life that erewhile nourished me is cold.
O Love! I die,
But thou, new-born, dost fly
Aloft on wings irradiate with gold,
Into yon skies that hold
The fountains of the soul’s eternity.