There's a regret that from my bosom aye <br /> Wrings forth a dirgy sweetness, like a rain <br /> Of deathward love; that ever in my brain <br />Uttereth such tones as in some foregone way <br />Seem gathered from the harmonies that start <br /> Into the dayspring, when some rarest view <br /> Unveileth its Tempèan grace anew <br />To meet the sun—the great world’s fervent heart. <br />’Tis that, though living in his tuneful day, <br /> My boyhood might not see the gentle smile, <br />Nor hear the voice of Shelley; that away <br /> His soul had journeyed, ere I might beguile <br />In my warm youth, by some fraternal lay, <br /> One thought of his towards this may native isle. <br /><br /><br />Charles Harpur<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/regret-4/
