Die weeping with his head on the outraged corpse?

Oh, he's forgotten. A dead dream, a cloud.

Labourer Watkin delves, drowsily, numbly,

His harsh spade grates among the buried stones.

THE PATCHWORK BONNET

Across the room my silent love I throw,

Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight,

Your young stern profile and industrious fingers