Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death,

⁠Who kneeling, with one arm about her king,
Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,
⁠Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labours longer from the deep

⁠Goldmines of thought to lift the hidden ore
That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep
⁠To gather and tell o'er

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain

⁠Compassed, how eagerly I sought to strike
Into that wondrous track of dreams again!
⁠But no two dreams are like.

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,

⁠Desiring what is mingled with past years,
In yearnings that can never be exprest
⁠By signs or groans or tears;