The axe’s edge, which makes it.—Is our life’s stuff
So different? All the joys and hopes of earth
Wrought of too coarse a fibre to invest
An inkling of that other unseen world,
Which hath this only entrance? Wherefore my mind
Wanders in wasteful contemplation back
O’er what I have done, pitifully seeking
To wear renewed the robe of those proud deeds,
To dream again her disappointed dreams;
And over all is Margaret, ever Margaret;