XXXVI.

I told my heart, ’twas but the exile’s woe Which press’d on that sweet bosom; I deceived My heart but half: a whisper, faint and low, Haunting it ever, and at times believed, Spoke of some deeper cause. How oft we seem Like those that dream, and _know_ the while they dream-- Midst the soft falls of airy voices grieved And troubled, while bright phantoms round them play, By a dim sense that all will float and fade away!