He, solitary, wander’d; while the Maid
Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart
Pined in monastic horrors! Near his sill
A little cross he rear’d, where, prostrate low
At day’s pale glimpse, or when the setting Sun
Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,
His Orisons he pour’d, for her, whose hours
Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass’d,
And Summers faded, slow, unchearly all
To the lone Hermit’s sorrows: For, still, Love