Ah, broken is the golden bowl!—the spirit flown forever!
As for Locke, he is all in my eye,
At midnight, in the month of June,
At morn—at noon—at twilight dim—
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
Beloved! amid the earnest woes
By a route obscure and lonely,
Deep in earth my love is lying
Elizabeth, it is in vain you say
Elizabeth—it surely is most fit
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow
For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
From childhood’s hour I have not been
Hear the sledges with the bells—
How often we forget all time, when lone
I heed not that my earthly lot
I saw thee once—once only—years ago:
In spring of youth it was my lot
In the greenest of our valleys
In youth have I known one with whom the Earth
It was many and many a year ago,
It was my choice or chance or curse
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
O! nothing earthly save the ray
O, Times! O, Manners! It is my opinion
Of all who hail thy presence as the morning—
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
“Seldom we find,” says Solomon Don Dunce,
So sweet the hour—so calm the time,
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
The happiest day—the happiest hour
The noblest name in Allegory’s page,
The skies they were ashen and sober;
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
Thou wast that all to me, love,
Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
Thy soul shall find itself alone
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary