Of pulvis rhei very many grains;
And to the garden’s deepest shade was bent,
To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:
When, there,—alive and merry to appearance—
He ’spied his ancient foe, by the moon’s light!—
Who sat erect, with so much perseverance,
It look’d as if he kept his post in spite.
A case it is of piteous distress,
If, carrying a secret grief about,
We wish to bury it in a recess,