With the strong eye that sees the promised day
Dawn through this night of tempest.”
He could assure her, when she felt loth to leave the world—
“That there is nothing beautiful in this,
The passioned soul has clasped—but shall partake
Its everlasting essence—not a scent
Of rain-drench’d flower, nor fleece of evening cloud
Which blended with a thought that rose to heaven,
Shall ever die.”
Never weary was he of talking about the fair land where—