The sin was mine; I did not understand.So now is music prisoned in her cave,Save where some ebbing desultory waveFrets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.And in the withered hollow of this landHath Summer dug herself so deep a grave,That hardly can the leaden willow craveOne silver blossom from keen Winter’s hand.
But who is this who cometh by the shore?(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is thisWho cometh in dyed garments from the South?It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kissThe yet unravished roses of thy mouth,And I shall weep and worship, as before.
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