So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

The greater person is one of courtesy.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!