Sonnet Cxiii:

Whither, thou glory of thy gentle race, My heart's content, within whose warmth I lie, As lies the flower beneath day's golden eye, Whither is fled the splendor of thy face? In vain thy so familiar haunts I trace; Unmarked the city's myriads pass me by; I hear no echo of thy tender sigh, I see no glimmer of thy saintly grace. Dark as the vision of the cloudy throng In Dante's whirl of Hell the passers seem, Lost in the sorrows of their selfish dream. Ah, nowhere shines that look, so fond and long, Which made my day, and with its earliest beam, Roused, like the lark's, my heart's exulting song.