If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn,
  Shouldst call along the curving sphere, “Remain,
Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!”
  With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain; —

Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark,
  ’Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea,
And move the mighty woods through mailed bark
  Till mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree; —

Or (grievous ‘if’ that may be ‘yea’ o’er-soon!),
  If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet,
Shouldst knock Death’s door with mellow shocks of tune,
  Sad inquiry to make—‘When may we meet?’

Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart!
  Should chant grave unisons of grief and love;
Ye could not mourn with more melodious art
  Than daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.