Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
The noonday quiet holds the hill.
Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.
He is all fault who has no fault at all.