And some are scathing, like the wintry wind;
And some begin, and some will never end.
III.
How can I think, ye tears! that I have been
The thing I was—so doubting, so unfit,
And so unblest, with brows for ever knit,
And hair unkempt, and face becoming lean
And cold and pale, as if I late had seen
Medusa's head, and all the scowls of it?
IV.