Ye thrilled me once, ye mournful strains
Ye anthems of plaintive woe,
My spirit was sad when I was young;
Ah, sorrowful long-ago!
But since I have found the beauty of joy
I have done with proud dismay:
For howsoe'er man hug his care
The best of his art is gay.
 
And yet if voices of fancy's choir
Again in mine hear awake
Your old lament, 'tis dear to me still,
Nor all form memory's sake:
'This like the dirge of sorrow dead,
Whose tears are wiped away;
Or drops of the shower when rain is o'er,
That jewel the brightened day.