That those detect who would not find it there,
But, when they test the stars, have dealt with light.
XLIII.
I wrought and rested; it was all in vain.
My highest consolation was the hope
That hard-earn’d sleep might hold me long in dreams
Where evermore my soul might with her dwell,
Though every morn I seem’d yet more alone.
Awake, asleep, throned constant o’er my heart,
I served this image all intangible,