Is it, then, regret for buried time
         That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
         And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?
Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
         The life re-orient out of dust,
         Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shine
        Upon me, while I muse alone;
        And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me
        For days of happy commune dead;
        Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.