Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
Lady Middleton, a friend of old days in Adelaide and now in England, reminded me of these lines.
Yet in my hid soul must a voice reply
Which knows not which may seem the viler gain,
To sleep for ever or be born again.
The blank repose or drear eternity.
A solitary thing it were to die