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.