The Cry of the Romanticist

To-morrow I shall once again behold
The bright clear weather after skies of grey,
Forever through the unaccustomed day
I shall be puissant in the lists of old.

Delay not, therefore, shining day of gold,
But spring eternal from the fields of night,
And lift my soul into far seas of light,
And bring me near my perfect love, Isolde.

For in this night of time no more I find
The fluted dreams, unperishing and high,
The ringing temper of the ancient mind.

Glory is gone, while Love, a wasted thing,
Looks from dim windows on the passers-by,
And Love, alas ! has lost the heart to sing.