Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.
III.
And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not,
O my beloved! there is one hopeless lot,
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead
There sits the grief that mantles up its head,
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light,
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight
Covers its beautiful![342] If thou wert gone
To the grave’s bosom, with thy radiant brow—