To lose what we have never owned might seem an eccentric bereavement, but Presumption has its own affliction as well as claim.

Memory is a strange Bell—Jubilee, and Knell.

MY river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me? My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously! I ’ll fetch thee brooks From spotted nooks,— Say, sea, Take me!

... I have no letter from the dead, yet daily love them more.

This is the Hour of Lead- Remembered, if outlived, As freezing persons, recollect the Snow- First-Chill-then Stupor- then the letting go---

I must go in, the fog is rising.

Heart, we will forget him, You and I, tonight! You must forget the warmth he gave, I will forget the light.