Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

Love betters what is best

And I am happy when I sing.

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light