Of dear defeat, some subjugation dim,
Presaging all this bosom once was made
To be thus crushed, ere once it could be glad.
Thus are we fashioned, Mother, though we live
Immortal or the sons of men; and so
Each day on my disdain some tendril new
Bound me the closer to him; loving not,
Some wayward bar of pity caged me down,
And day by languid day amid Death’s gloom,
I grew to lean upon him, and in time