10
When sorrow hath outsoar’d our nature’s clime,
Leaving it far remote &, like a strong
Eagle lone brooding on her peak sublime,
Graspeth in solitude her towering wrong;
& no more hankereth for petty prey
Nor bleeding victim wherewithal to still
Her hunger of desolate passion, but thus aye
Sitteth, devour’d by her own vital ill,
Motionless, nerveless, where for her no sound
Of life is, only the wind’s alien
Moan that meandereth sleeplessly around
The promontory,—what saviour can then
Help helpless sorrow? What shall break that spell
Of icy death in life, that shackling Hell?