There is help if the Heavens have one;
Though the stars be discrowned of the sunlight;
And the earth dispossessed of the Sun:
They have moonlight and sleep for repayment;
When refreshed as a bride and set free;
With stars and sea-winds in her raiment
Night sinks on the sea.”
My very soul was taken: I had no need to read them twice: I’ve never seen them since: I shall not forget them so long as this machine lasts. They flooded my eyes with tears, my heart with passionate admiration. In this state the old gentlemen came back and found me, a cowboy to all appearance, lost, tear-drowned in Swinburne.
“I think that’s my book”, he said calling me back to dull reality. “Surely”, I replied bowing; “but what magnificent poetry and I never heard of Swinburne before.” “This is his first book I believe”, said the old gentleman, “but I’m glad you like his verses.” “Like”, I cried, “who could help adoring them!” and I let myself go to recite the Proserpine:
“From too much love of living,