11 . A Regret

THERE’S a regret that from my bosom aye

Wrings forth a dirgy sweetness, like a rain

Of deathward love; that ever in my brain

Uttereth such tones as in some foregone way

Seem gathered from the harmonies that start

Into the dayspring, when some rarest view

Unveileth its Tempean grace anew

To meet the sun—the great world’s fervent heart.

’Tis that, though living in his tuneful day,

My boyhood might not see the gentle smile,

Nor hear the voice of Shelley; that away

His soul had journeyed, ere I might beguile

In my warm youth, by some fraternal lay,

One thought of his towards this my native isle.