Is it, then, regret for buried time br That keenlier in sweet April wakes, br And meets the year, and gives and takes br The colours of the crescent prime? br Not all: the songs, the stirring air, br The life re-orient out of dust, br Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust br In that which made the world so fair. br Not all regret: the face will shine br Upon me, while I muse alone; br And that dear voice, I once have known, br Still speak to me of me and mine: br br Yet less of sorrow lives in me br For days of happy commune dead; br Less yearning for the friendship fled, br Than some strong bond which is to be.