Is it, then, regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, and gives and takes The colors of the crescent prime? Not all: the songs, the stirring air, The life re-orient out of dust, Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret: the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone, And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine. Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead, Less yearning for the friendship fled Than some strong bond which is to be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 18. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT by JOHN MILTON MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 4 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI THE CROSS; TO THE MOTHERS OF THE MARTYRED DEAD UPON FIELD OF BATTLE by JOSEPHINE TURCK BAKER |