Sitteth, devour’d by her own vital ill,
Motionless, nerveless, where for her no sound
Of life is, only the wind’s alien
Moan that meandereth sleeplessly around
The promontory,—what saviour can then
Help helpless sorrow? What shall break that spell
Of icy death in life, that shackling Hell?
11
O gentle weariness,
Thine is the power that can all spirits free