Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.
Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.
The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.
One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light