V

The doors are all wide open; at the gate

The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze,

And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze

Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows like a fate,

And on their margin, with sea-tides elate,

The flooded Charles, as in the happier days,

Writes the last letter of his name, and stays

His restless steps, as if compelled to wait.

I also wait; but they will come no more,

Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied

The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me!

They have forgotten the pathway to my door!

Something is gone from nature since they died,

And summer is not summer, nor can be.