Of all sounds out of the soul of sorrow
These I would hear no more:
The cry of a new-born child at midnight;
The sound of a closing door,
That hushes the echo of departing feet
When the loneliness of the room
Is haunted with the silence
Of a dead god's tomb;
The songs of robins at the white dawn,
Since I may never see
The eyes they waked in the April
Now gone from me;
Music into whose essence entered
The soul of an hour:—
A face, a voice, the touch of a hand,
The scent of a flower.