Tears， idle tears， I know not what they mean，

    Tears from the depth of some divine despair

    Rise in the heart， and gather to the eyes，

    In looking on the happy autumn-fields，

    And thinking of the days that are no more.

    Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail，

    That brings our friends up from the underworld，

    Sad as the last which reddens over one

    That sinks with all we love below the verge¹；

    So sad， so fresh， the days that are no more.

    Ah， sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

    The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

    To dying ears， when unto dying eyes

    The casement² slowly grows a glimmering³ square；

    So sad， so strange， the days that are no more.

    Dear as remembered kisses after death，

    And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned⁴

    On lips that are for others； deep as love，

    Deep as first love， and wild with all regret；

    O Death in Life， the days that are no more！