WHEREIN HE REVISITS VAUCLUSE

Once more, soft winds, I feel you; and again
You sweet hills, I observe the dawn that gleams
Across your grassy summits; while your streams
Twist through your fragrant valleys like a stain
All silver... O blank hopes! O thoughts as vain!
Withered the grass; the water like my themes
As void, as desolate, as dark; the dreams
As dead, the house where only ghosts remain.
O Laura! Laura! In the dust to share
With thee the desperate escape! Is this,
O Love, thy proudest victory — to tear
A heart thou dar'st not free for cowardice,
Compelling it to beat (hope dead) and bear
The burden of its own black emphasis?