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,….

From perfect grief there need not beWisdom or even memory;One thing then learned remains to me -The woodspurge has a cup of three..

I am not as these are, the poet saithIn youth's pride, and the painter, among menAt bay, where never pencil comes nor pem.

Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass..