The
days have vanish’d, tone and tint,
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense
Gives out at times (he knows not whence)
A
little flash, a mystic hint;
And
in the long harmonious years
(If Death so taste Lethean springs),
May some dim touch of earthly things
Surprise
thee ranging with thy peers.
If
such a dreamy touch should fall,
O turn thee round, resolve the doubt;
My guardian angel will speak out
In
that high place, and tell thee all.