Oh, I was left in my soul to know
The wicked are like the Ocean,
That never can rest, in rise or fall,
That even in calm, is tremulous all,
That casteth up mire, and, bitter as gall,
Is ever, and aye in motion.
XXXVIII.
A body grew o’er my ghostly mind,
And I felt young winglets sprout behind,
A butterfly pair of gauzy things;