As those in which we read, through misty eyes,
Letters from those who loved us once; of whom
Some have long ceased to love at all; the hand
That traced the fond warm records still and cold;
The spirit that turned to ours, long lost to all
That moves and mourns and sins upon the earth;
And some, oh! sadder! that, by us estranged,
Still live, still love, but live for us no more.
He sate and gazed, till through the tent was heard
That sound the coldest cannot hear unmoved,