A stare that seemed the mocking of the just.
And in my thoughts the dreadful thing is sitting—
Sitting there with eyelids red and blear,
And see it there I will
'Til my restless soul is still
And the earth-clods roll and rumble on my bier.
TO CLARA MORRIS.
In days gone by, the poets wrote
Sweet verses to the ladies fair;
Described the nightingale's clear note,