Oh, why is this? Oh, why have I so long
Brooded on grief, and made myself a bane
To golden fields and all the happy plain
Where once I met the Lady of my Song,
The lady for whose sake I shall be strong,
But never weak or diffident again?
V.
I was too shorn of hope. I did employ
Words like a mourner; and to Her I bow'd,
As one might kneel to Glory in its shroud.