XXXIX.

For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest, Midst thy young spirit’s dreams, than that which grows Between the nurtured of the same fond breast, The shelter’d of one roof; and thus it rose Twined in with life. How is it that the hours Of the same sport, the gathering early flowers Round the same tree, the sharing one repose, And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft, From the heart’s memory fade in this world’s breath so oft?