Old wonder flush’d the east anew

and shed the golden air, and wing

of song that summon’d, from the dew

and rapture of the fields of spring,

old wonder blossom’d in my heart:

because the threatening dream of old,

that nightly wont to bid us part,

now changing, gave me to behold

thy rosy maidenhood that pass’d

and greeted me with stranger grace,

who knew that meeting for our last

and far from mine thy biding-place.

And I have thank’d the threat of sleep,

because the secret heart that flow’d

with phantom wound was proven to keep

beneath its living springs bestow’d

the pang that seven years since was felt

keen thro’ my life yet soft dispersed

along all veins that thrill or melt —

old wonder, blossom’d, not inhears’d:

and eyes perchance made dull and slow

by the long days’ subtle dusty mesh

waked gladly from their fear, to know

old wonder, old and ever fresh.