A Precious Urn

The great effulgence of the early days Of one first summer, whose bright joys, it seems, Have been to all my songs their golden themes; The rose leaves gathered from the faded ways I wandered in when they were all a-blaze With living flowers and flame of the sunbeams; And, more than all, that ending of my dreams Divinely, in a dream-like thing,—the face Of one belovèd lady once possest In one long kiss that made my whole life burn: What of all these remains to me?—At best, A heap of fragrant ashes now, that turn My heavy heart into a funeral urn Which I have buried deep within my breast.