Of the million-peopled City vast; 945
Which is that desert, where each one
Seeks his mate yet is alone,
Beloved and sought and mourned of none;
Until the clear blue sky was seen,
And the grassy meadows bright and green, 950
And then I sunk in his embrace,
Enclosing there a mighty space
Of love:  and so we travelled on
By woods, and fields of yellow flowers,
And towns, and villages, and towers, 955
Day after day of happy hours. 
It was the azure time of June,
When the skies are deep in the stainless noon,
And the warm and fitful breezes shake
The fresh green leaves of the hedgerow briar, 960
And there were odours then to make
The very breath we did respire
A liquid element, whereon
Our spirits, like delighted things
That walk the air on subtle wings, 965
Floated and mingled far away,
’Mid the warm winds of the sunny day. 
And when the evening star came forth
Above the curve of the new bent moon,
And light and sound ebbed from the earth, 970
Like the tide of the full and the weary sea
To the depths of its own tranquillity,
Our natures to its own repose
Did the earth’s breathless sleep attune: 
Like flowers, which on each other close 975
Their languid leaves when daylight’s gone,
We lay, till new emotions came,
Which seemed to make each mortal frame
One soul of interwoven flame,
A life in life, a second birth 980
In worlds diviner far than earth,
Which, like two strains of harmony
That mingle in the silent sky
Then slowly disunite, passed by
And left the tenderness of tears, 985
A soft oblivion of all fears,
A sweet sleep:  so we travelled on
Till we came to the home of Lionel,
Among the mountains wild and lone,
Beside the hoary western sea, 990
Which near the verge of the echoing shore
The massy forest shadowed o’er.

The ancient steward, with hair all hoar,
As we alighted, wept to see
His master changed so fearfully; 995
And the old man’s sobs did waken me
From my dream of unremaining gladness;
The truth flashed o’er me like quick madness
When I looked, and saw that there was death
On Lionel:  yet day by day 1000
He lived, till fear grew hope and faith,
And in my soul I dared to say,
Nothing so bright can pass away: 
Death is dark, and foul, and dull,
But he is—­O how beautiful! 1005
Yet day by day he grew more weak,
And his sweet voice, when he might speak,