That very law which moulds a tear And bids it trickle from its source,- That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.
To know her was to love her.
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
I lived to write, and wrote to live.