Though for a marriage-feast it rings: each stroke
Peals for a hope the less; the funeral note
Of Love deep-buried, without resurrection,
In the grave of Possession; while the knoll[191]10
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo
To triple time in the son's ear.
I'm cold—
I'm dark;—I've blown my fingers—numbered o'er
And o'er my steps—and knocked my head against