It is Thought at work amidst buried hours—
It is Love keeping vigil o’er perish’d flowers.
—Oh, we bear within us mysterious things!
Of Memory and Anguish, unfathom’d springs;
And Passion—those gulfs of the heart to fill
With bitter waves, which it ne’er may still.
Well might we pause ere we gave them sway,
Flinging the peace of our couch away!
Well might we look on our souls in fear—
They find no fount of oblivion here!