Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.