Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Palingenesis

I lay upon the headland-height, and listened To the incessant sobbing of the sea        &nbsp In caverns under me, And watched the waves, that tossed and fled and glistened, Until the rolling meadows of amethyst        &nbsp Melted away in mist. Then suddenly, as one from sleep, I started; For round about me all the sunny capes        &nbsp Seemed peopled with the shapes Of those whom I had known in days departed, Apparelled in the loveliness which gleams        &nbsp On faces seen in dreams. A moment only, and the light and glory Faded away, and the disconsolate shore        &nbsp Stood lonely as before; And the wild-roses of the promontory Around me shuddered in the wind, and shed        &nbsp Their petals of pale red. There was an old belief that in the embers Of all things their primordial form exists,        &nbsp And cunning alchemists Could re-create the rose with all its members From its own ashes, but without the bloom,        &nbsp Without the lost perfume. Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science Can from the ashes in our hearts once more        &nbsp The rose of youth restore? What craft of alchemy can bid defiance To time and change, and for a single hour        &nbsp Renew this phantom-flower? "O, give me back," I cried, "the vanished splendors, The breath of morn, and the exultant strife,        &nbsp When the swift stream of life Bounds o'er its rocky channel, and surrenders The pond, with all its lilies, for the leap        &nbsp Into the unknown deep!" And the sea answered, with a lamentation, Like some old prophet wailing, and it said,        &nbsp "Alas! thy youth is dead! It breathes no more, its heart has no pulsation; In the dark places with the dead of old        &nbsp It lies forever cold!" Then said I, "From its consecrated cerements I will not drag this sacred dust again,        &nbsp Only to give me pain; But, still remembering all the lost endearments, Go on my way, like one who looks before,        &nbsp And turns to weep no more." Into what land of harvests, what plantations Bright with autumnal foliage and the glow        &nbsp Of sunsets burning low; Beneath what midnight skies, whose constellations Light up the spacious avenues between        &nbsp This world and the unseen! Amid what friendly greetings and caresses, What households, though not alien, yet not mine,        &nbsp What bowers of rest divine; To what temptations in lone wildernesses, What famine of the heart, what pain and loss,        &nbsp The bearing of what cross! I do not know; nor will I vainly question Those pages of the mystic book which hold        &nbsp The story still untold, But without rash conjecture or suggestion Turn its last leaves in reverence and good heed,        &nbsp Until "The End" I read.