Broke from the copse where late a breeze was slain,
And nightingales in ecstacy of pain
Did break their hearts with singing the old joys,"
abound all through the book. And here it is as well to mark the decision of our poet, even in trifles. The breeze he speaks of is not hushed, or still—none of the usual epithets are applied to it—it is "slain," as utterly and as pitifully as though it were a murdered child. This originality of conception is remarkable, and comes out in such lines as
"I will unpack my mind of all its fears"—
where the word "unpack" is singularly appropriate, and again—
"O sweet To-morrow! Youngest of the sons
Of old King Time, to whom Creation runs
As men to God."
"Where a daisy grows,