Æolian Harp by William Allingham — Read

What is it that is gone, we fancied ours? / Oh what is lost that never may be told? -- / We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve / Until the perfect closing of the night. / Listen to us, thou gray Autumnal Eve, / Whose part is silence. At thy verge the clouds / Are broken into melancholy gold; / The waifs of Autumn and the feeble flow'rs / Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light; / Within thy shadow thou dost weave the shrouds / Of joy and great adventure, waxing cold, / Which once, or so it seemed, were full of might. / Some power it was, that lives not with us now, / A thought we had, but could not, could not hold. / O sweetly, swiftly pass'd:air sings and murmurs; / Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough; / O sadly, swiftly pass'd:air sighs and mutters; / Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould. / Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white. / O what is gone from us, we fancied ours? --