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 find,
The color of love or sound;
Or feel the graces
Of the sun upon
The tresses of golden rye,
Who glean 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....
