But another poet of the period was haunted even more than Rossetti by this idea--Arthur O'Shaughnessy.

Like Rossetti he was a great lover, and very unfortunate in his love; and he wrote his poems, now famous, out of the pain and regret that was in his heart, much as singing birds born in cages are said to sing better when their eyes are put out.

Here is one example: Along the garden ways just now I heard the flowers speak; The white rose told me of your brow, The red rose of your cheek; The lily of your bended head, The bindweed of your hair: Each looked its loveliest and said You were more fair.
I went into the woods anon, And heard the wild birds sing How sweet you were; they warbled on, Piped, trill'd the self-same thing.
Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause The burden did repeat, And still began again because You were more sweet.
And then I went down to the sea, And heard it murmuring too, Part of an ancient mystery, All made of me and you: How many a thousand years ago I loved, and you were sweet-- Longer I could not stay, and so I fled back to your feet.
The last stanza especially expresses the idea that I have been telling you about; but in a poem entitled "Greater Memory" the idea is much more fully expressed.

By "greater memory" you must understand the memory beyond this life into past stages of existence.

This piece has become a part of the nineteenth century poetry that will live; and a few of the best stanzas deserve to be quoted, In the heart there lay buried for years Love's story of passion and tears; Of the heaven that two had begun And the horror that tore them apart; When one was love's slayer, but one Made a grave for the love in his heart.
The long years pass'd weary and lone And it lay there and changed there unknown; Then one day from its innermost place, In the shamed and ruin'd love's stead, Love arose with a glorified face, Like an angel that comes from the dead.
It uplifted the stone that was set On that tomb which the heart held yet; But the sorrow had moulder'd within And there came from the long closed door A dear image, that was not the sin Or the grief that lay buried before.
* * * * * There was never the stain of a tear On the face that was ever so dear; 'Twas the same in each lovelier way; 'Twas old love's holier part, And the dream of the earliest day Brought back to the desolate heart.
It was knowledge of all that had been In the thought, in the soul unseen; 'Twas the word which the lips could not say To redeem or recover the past.
It was more than was taken away Which the heart got back at the last.
The passion that lost its spell, The rose that died where it fell, The look that was look'd in vain, The prayer that seemed lost evermore, They were found in the heart again, With all that the heart would restore.
Put into less mystical language the legend is this: A young man and a young woman loved each other for a time; then they were separated by some great wrong--we may suppose the woman was untrue.