The quiet sense of something lost
But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.
The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.
Nature, red in tooth and claw.
What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.