Yet Nature, where the thunder leaves its trace On the high hemlock pine or sandstone bank, Hating all shock of hue or contrast rank, With some consenting color heals the place, Or o'er it draws her mosses green and dank: So gentle Time will bring with tender craft Another day, and other greens ingraft On the dead soil so fire-burned now and blank. What we have had, we hold, and cannot sink Remembrance: patience cometh from above; And now he breathes apart to daily drink In tears the bitter ashes of his love, Yet precious rich, and a diviner draught Than Agria or Artemisia drank. |