What time mine own might also flee,
⁠As link'd with thine in love and fate,
⁠And, hovering o’er the dolorous strait
To the other shore, involved in thee,

Arrive at last the blessed goal,
⁠And he that died in Holy Land
⁠Would reach us out the shining hand,
And take us as a single soul.

What reed was that on which I leant?
⁠Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake
⁠The old bitterness again, and break
The low beginnings of content.