TO J. S.
161
xi.
She loveth her own anguish deep
More than much pleasure. Let her will
Be done—to weep or not to weep.
xii.
Of Death is blown in every wind;"
For that is not a common chance
That takes away a noble mind.
xiii.
In all our hearts, as mournful light
That broods above the fallen sun,
And dwells in heaven half the night.
xiv.
Cast down her eyes, and in her throat
Her voice seemed distant, and a tear
Dropt on my tablets as I wrote.
