GONE art thou, then, O mystical musician!
Pure-thoughted singer of these sinful years!
No more shall dreams and doubts and hopes and fears
Pass and repass before thy stricken vision;
No more from thine high sorrowing position
Shall fall thy song-irradiated tears;
Alas! no more against our listening years
Shall new lays ring from thy lone lute elysian.
For unto thee at last has rest been given,
Whether in sleep eternal by the shore
Of Time's wide ocean or in song without
Or break or flaw, by the gold bar of that heaven
From which the Blessed Damozel leaned out,
Sighing for thee in the sad days of yore.
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