Opes there no casement soft to take her in,
And lay her in the bosom of delight?
O dove, white dove, now at the gate of Heaven!
Wilt thou wing homeward ere the eventide,
On shining pinions to thine own soft nest?

[_A pause_.

O wonderful! Thou mansion tenantless,
Unswept by memory, untrod by thought,
Where all lies tranced in motionless repose;
No whisper stirring round the silent place,
No foot of guest across the startled halls,
No rustling robes about the corridors,
No voices floating on the waveless air,
No laughters, no sweet songs like angel dreams
On silver wings among the archèd domes,--
No swans upon the mere--no golden prow,
Parting the crystal tide to Pleasure's breeze,--
No flapping sail before the idle wind,--
No music pulsing out its great wild heart
In sweetest passion-beats the noontide through,--
No lovers gliding down sun-chequer'd glades,
In dreams that open wide the Eden gate,
And waft them past the guardian Seraphim.
Sleep over all the Present and the Past--
The Future standing idle at the gate,
Gazing amazed, like one who, in hot haste
Bearing great tidings to some palace porch,
Findeth the place deserted.