400. Desideria

William Wordsworth (1770—1850)

  SURPRIZED by joy—impatient as the wind—

  I turn’d to share the transport—O with whom

  But Thee—deep buried in the silent tomb,

  That spot which no vicissitude can find?

  Love, faithful love recall’d thee to my mind

  But how could I forget thee? Through what power

  Even for the least division of an hour

  Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

  To my most grievous loss—That thought’s return

  Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,

  Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

  Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;

  That neither present time, nor years unborn

  Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.