All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.

Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

I came in haste with cursing breath, And heart of hardest steel; But when I saw thee cold in death, I felt as man should feel. For when I look upon that face, That cold, unheeding, frigid brown, Where neither rage nor fear has place, By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now!

The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.