(Matthew Arnold)

He wandered from us long, oh, long ago, Rare singer, with the note unsatisfied; Into what charmèd wood, what shade star-eyed With the wind's April darlings, none may know. We lost him. Songless, one with seed to sow, Keen-smiling toiler, came in place, and plied His strength in furrowed field till eventide, And passed to slumber when the sun was low.

But now,--as though Death spoke some mystic word Solving a spell,--present to thought appears The morn's estray, not him we saw but late; And on his lips the strain that once we heard, And in his hand, cool as with Springtime's tears, The melancholy wood-flowers delicate.