And terror that for which through life
We long as the sole refuge from our woes,
And show us, yet more dread than the stormy sea,
The port we make for?
A portrait of a beautiful woman, carved also upon her tomb, overwhelms him with the wonder of beauty and the paradox of its conversion into dust:
Ah, human nature, how,
If utterly frail thou art and vile,
If dust thou art and ashes, is thy heart so great?
If thou art noble in part,
How are thy loftiest impulses and thoughts