Of this dead thing, regard it as a toy.
It was a splendid Hope without alloy,
And now, behold! I greet it with a tear.
VII.
It is my pastime, and my penance, too,
My pride, my comfort, and my discontent,
To count my sorrows ere the day is spent,
And dream, at night, of love within the blue
Of thy sweet eyes, and tremble through and through,
And keep my house, as one that doth lament.