Of her dead soldier son, creeps o'er the world.
And to my lonely eye the universe
Shrinks to a monument writ with one grief.
Ocrastes, couldst, when locked within my love—
Ay, bedded in the core—to vermin turn
And gnaw the heart thou breathedst in?... O youth,
Among life's strangely flowering hopes thou art
The blossom of deceit! When we have watched
Thy tender green peer up—thy opening buds
That wrap their silken promise round our fears—