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!