How dewy gray beneath each long, black lid,
And danger somewhere in their light lay hid.
There are some natures housed so chaste within
Their placid dwellings that their heads control
The tumult of their hearts; and thus they win
A quittance from this pleading of the soul
For Love, whose service does so wound and heal;
How should they crave for what they cannot feel?
From passion and from pain enfranchised quite,
Alike from gain and never-stanched Regret,