Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.
Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.
The poetry of speech.
In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.