A thousand tones of grief are heard,
Whose deeply-seated echoes rest
In the fair cells of every breast.
Who hath not known, who shall not know,
That keen yet most familiar woe?
Where’er affection’s home is found,
It meets her on the holy ground;
The cloud of every summer hour,
The canker-worm of every flower.
“Who but hath proved, or yet shall prove,