Yea, wilt thou not return,
When the late hill-winds veer,
And the bright hill-flowers burn
With the reviving year?

When April comes, and the sea
Sparkles as if it smiled,
Will they restore to me
My dark Love, empress and child?

The curtains seem to part;
A sound is on the stair,
As if at the last ... I start;
Only the wind is there.

Lo, now far on the hills
The crimson fumes uncurl’d,
Where the caldron mantles and spills
Another dawn on the world!