At hush of eve for the returning step
That wake the inmost pulses of the heart
To extasy,—till iron-handed Grief
Press'd down the nevermore into our soul,
Deadening us with its weight.
The man of Uz
As the slow lapse of days and nights reveal'd
The desolation of his poverty
Felt every nerve that at the first great shock
Was paralyzed, grow sensitive and shrink