I have a knack of hoping, which is as good as an estate.
The tale of the Divine Pity was never yet believed from lips that were not felt to be moved by human pity.
Her own misery filled her heart—there was no room in it for other people's sorrow.
The tread Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, And hears them never pause, but pass and die.
Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty.
Childhood has no forebodings; but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.