“Nevertheless I die daily.”
Like the voice of the storm, like the sound of the sea,
Is this tempest of longing for what can not be.
If wishes could waken the joys of the past,
If prayers could deaden the sorrows that last,
Now and for ever,—
A cry for the souls of a thousand in pain—
“Give us death or forgetting, or Heaven again.”
And the dead on the winds of Eternity sigh—