Once more from midnight visions and the strain
Of sleepless pain
I have arisen, and I stand
Not as a victor glorious with the palm
In my right hand,
But cold and calm,
To fate resigned,
With reason clothed and in my firmer mind.
Lo, from her amethystine cup
The bay to heaven is tossing up
Incense of buds new-born!
Lo, songs of morn
Ascend from nightingales, in chorus flinging
Their souls forth from their quick and quivering throat!
The world is ringing
With music; not one note
Makes discord; I alone am grave and mute.