I.

Spirit, that rarely comest now, And only to contrast my gloom, Like rainbow-feathered birds that bloom A moment on some autumn bough Which, with the spurn of their farewell, Sheds its last leaves,--thou once didst dwell With me year-long, and make intense To boyhood's wisely-vacant days That fleet, but all-sufficing grace Of trustful inexperience, While yet the soul transfigured sense, And thrilled, as with love's first caress, At life's mere unexpectedness.