The day I lost my voice —
(Resounding as the season’s coil,) —
Returns the dew of April’s May
Over the fairest tomb —
O I shall never hear, nor know,
The color of love or sound;
Nor find the graces
Of the sun upon
The tresses of golden rye,
Who shed the seeds upon the bay;
Where the sands are white
And sounding;
Where the clear boughs wrap
In dismay and call
The bones up to their founding....
