Classic Poem

A week ago I sought the self-same place
Where once I wandered through the fields of spring,
Seeking my vanished love with weary wing, —
Searching for the lost likeness of her face.
Still, still, the meadows shine with opening grace
Of sweet fresh flowerets; still the glad birds sing:
The spirit of Nature is an unchanged thing: —
Still, still, the winds pursue their jocund race.

All is the same: 'tis I am changed alone.
The spirit of spring is festive in the trees;
The golden buttercups are blithely blown
Just as aforetime by an amorous breeze:
The peace of heaven is in the azure deep, —
And still the crimson clover-blossoms sleep.