THE FAREWELL OF PARACELSUS 
TO APRILE. 
 
THOU Sun, whose swift desire to-day is dull, 
And all ye hosts of heaven, whose lips are mute, 
And trees and flowers and oceans beautiful 
Among whose murmurs I have struck this lute 
With joy supreme or agony acute, 
And love transcending everything alway, 
Pity me, pity, since the poisonous root 
Of parting strikes the beauty of the day ; 
We meet for the last time beside the ocean gray. 
 
Soul of my soul, we never can forget— 
But, is our parting burnt across the skies ? 
Is the last word said ?  Must our lips be set 
Not to new song, but to the bitter sighs 
As of a child whose flower-garden dies, 
Who knows no hope of some enduring spring ? 
 
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