A wild and bitter pride in thus being past
The power of thy dark glance! My spirit now
Is wound about by one sole mighty grief;
Thy scorn hath lost its sting. Thou may’st reproach——
Her. I come not to reproach thee. Heaven doth work
By many agencies; and in its hour
There is no insect which the summer breeze
From the green leaf shakes trembling, but may serve
Its deep unsearchable purposes, as well
As the great ocean, or th’ eternal fires