Chapter XXXI

How awful was my memory, then,
Of hours when I abode with men:
When rose my clouded soul within
The pictur’d world, where I had been:
When all delights that I had known,
Came back, because forever flown:
When blew their fragrance o’er my sense,
With sorrow’s fullness in their flavour,
And all the silent eloquence
Of a remembered savour.