III. The Rose Of Dawn

How mockingly the morning dawns for me,
Since thou art gone where no pursuing speech,
No prayer, no farthest-sounding cry can reach!
I call, and wait the answer to my plea —
But only hear the stern, dividing sea,
That pauses not, however I beseech,
Breaking, and breaking, on the distant beach
Of that far land whereto thy soul did flee.

Do happy suns shine on thee where thou art?
And kind stars cheer with friendly ray thy night?
And strange birds wake with music strange thy morn?
This beggared world, where thou no more hast part,
Misapprehends the morning's young delight,
And the old grief makes the new day forlorn.
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