Beauty Without The Beloved Is A Like

Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

So Spring Comes Merry Towards Me Here, But Earns No Answering Smile From Me, Whose Life Is Twin'd With The Dead Boughs That Winter Still Must Bind, And Whom Today The Spring No More Concerns. Behold, This Crocus Is A Withering Flame; This Snowdrop, Snow; This Apple-blossom's Part To Breed The Fruit That Breeds The Serpent's Art. Nay, For These Spring-flowers, Turn Thy Face From Them, Nor Stay Till On The Year's Last Lily-stem The White Cup Shrivels Round The Golden Heart.

Tell Me Now In What Hidden Way Islady Flora The Lovely Roman?where's Hipparchia, And Where Is Thais,neither Of Them The Fairer Woman?where Is Echo, Beheld Of No Man,only Heard On River And Mere-she Whose Beauty Was More Than Human?-but Where Are The Snows Of Yester-year?

Was It A Friend Or Foe That Spread These Lies; Nay, Who But Infants Question In Such Wise, Twas One Of My Most Intimate Enemies.

Sometimes Thou Seem'st Not As Thyself Alone, But As The Meaning Of All Things That Are.