She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
The unconquerable pang of despised love.
From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.