Beauty, what mournest thou within the pines?
Surely thy voice is theirs,
Reverberant through caverns of the soul,
Like present grief which shares
The fainter sorrows of the past, that roll
In undertones no ear nor thought defines.

Dost sorrow for thy deaths in other years,
Aeons that, too, are dead,
On vanished worlds remembered but of thee?
Of for the flowers that, shed
But yesternoon, find now their threnody,
After the dews which were thy silent tears.