LXIII.

I will not speak of woe; I may not tell-- Friend tells not such to friends--the thoughts which rent My fainting spirit, when its wild farewell Across the billows to thy grave was sent, Thou, there most lonely! He that sits above, In his calm glory, will forgive the love His creatures bear each other, even if blent With a vain worship; for its close is dim Ever with grief which leads the wrung soul back to Him!