Sonnets XXVII: Heu Quanto Minus Est Cum Reliquis Versari, Quam Tui Meminisse!

The sweetest flower that ever saw the light,
The smoothest stream that ever wandered by,
The fairest star upon the brow of night,
Joying and sparkling from his sphere on high,
The softest glances of the stockdove's eye,
The lily pure, the mary-bud gold-bright,
The gush of song that floodeth all the sky
From the dear flutterer mounted out of sight, —
Are not so pleasure-stirring to the thought,
Not to the wounded soul so full of balm,
As one frail glimpse, by painful straining caught
Along the past's deep mist-enfolded calm,
Of that sweet face, not visibly defined,
But rising clearly on the inner mind.