Primavera

"[...]the heavens are bared of dreams divine. Still murmurs she, like Autumn, This was mine! How should she face the ghastly, jarring Truth, That questions all, and tramples without ruth? And still she clings to Ida of her dreams, And sobs, Ah! let the world be what it seems! Then the shy nymph shall softly come again; The world, once more, make music for her pain. For, sitting in the dim and ghostly night, She fain would stay the strong approach of light; While later bards cleave to her, and believe That in her sorrow she can still conceive! Oh, let her dream; still[...]".