O blest, unless ’tis proved by fact
A dream impossible to act.
COLD COMFORT.
Say, will it, when our hairs are grey,
And wintry suns half light the day,
Which cheering hope and strengthening trust
Have left, departed, turned to dust,—
Say, will it soothe lone years to extract
From fitful shows with sense exact
Their sad residuum, small, of fact?