Harp of wild and dreamy strain, when I touch thy strings
Why sound out of longforgotten things?
Harp, in other, earlier days, I could sing to thee;
And not one of all my lays vexed my memory

But now, if I awake a note that gave me joy before
Sounds of sorrow from thee float
Changing evermore

Yet, still steeped in memory's dyes, come sailing on
Darkening my summer skies
Shutting out my sun