Canto CXVII
Doors, where my heart was used to beatSo quickly, not as one that weepsI come once more; the city sleeps;I smell the meadow in the street;
I hear a chirp of birds; I seeBetwixt the black fronts long-withdrawnA light-blue lane of early dawn,And think of early days and thee,
And bless thee, for thy lips are blandAnd bright the friendship of thine eye;And in my thoughts with scarce a sighI take the pressure of thine hand.