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.