Sometimes a deep thought crossed
My fancy, like the sullen bat that flies
Athwart the melancholy moon at eve.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Let not thy tale tell but of stormy sorrows!
She—who was late a maid, but now doth lie
In Hymen’s bosom, like a rose grown pale,
A sad, sweet wedded wife—why is she left
Out of the story? Are good deeds—great griefs,
That live but ne’er complain—naught? What are tears?—