Canto CXIV
Is it, then, regret for buried timeThat keenlier in sweet April wakes,And meets the year, and gives and takesThe colours of the crescent prime?
Not all: the songs, the stirring air,The life re-orient out of dust,Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trustIn that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shineUpon me, while I muse alone;The dear, dear voice that I have knownWill speak to me of me and mine:
Yet less of sorrow lives in meFor days of happy commune dead;Less yearning for the friendship fled,Than some strong bond which is to be.