And murmured blessings, when he left his home.
He opened it, and face to face arose
The dead old years he thought to have escaped,
All chronicled in letters; there he saw
Answers to some of his, containing doubts
Long since become negations, some again
Encouraging resolves of his, long broke,
And, as he thought, forgotten; not a leaf
But marked some downward step: Oh, in our life
There are no hours so full of speechless woe,