DEATH of the year! wilt thou be also mine,
O Winter! never must I catch agen
The virgin breath of mountain cyclamen,
Pushing aside the wayward eglantine?
Such were my phantasies not long ago,
Ere thou wast nearer: I had thought once more
To ramble as of old along the shore
Of Larius, now indeed with step more slow:
And thence, if such a scene the heart can bear
To leave behind, Sorrento’s cliffs along
From that old terrace-walk guitar and song
(Spectres! away with ye!) agen to hear.