Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.
I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!