Doth twine itself with e’en each lifeless thing
Which, long remember’d, seem’d to bear its part
In her calm joys. For ever would she cling,
A brooding dove, to that sole spot of earth
Where she hath loved, and given her children birth,
And heard their first sweet voices. There may spring
Array no path, renew no flower, no leaf,
But hath its breath of home, its claim to farewell grief.
XXXIV.
I look’d on Leonor,—and if there seem’d