Or along with her own,
That a Hand of Bone
Was closing mortality's curtain!
CCCXXIII.
But life is sweet, and mortality blind,
And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind
In concealing the day of sorrow;
And enough is the present tense of toil—
For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil—
And the mind flies back with a glad recoil