Page:Prometheus bound - Browning (1833).djvu/159

 Thou spakest twice; and every pleasant sound Its ancient silken harmony unwound, From Doric pipe and Attic lyre that lay Enclasp'd in hands whose cunning is decay. And now no more thou speakest! Death hath met And won thee to him! Oh remember'd yet! We cannot see, and hearken, and forget!

My thoughts are far. I think upon the time, When Foxley's purple hills and woods sublime Were thrilling at thy step; when thou didst throw Thy burning spirit on the vale below, To bathe its sense in beauty. Lovely ground! There, never more shall step of thine resound! There, Spring again shall come, but find thee not, And deck with humid eyes her favorite spot; Strew tender green on paths thy foot forsakes, And make that fair, which Memory saddest makes.