"It was thus:
I said we were to part, but she said nothing.
There was no discord—it was music ceased—
Life's thrilling, bounding, bursting joy."
Of books, he says,—
"Worthy books
Are not companions—they are solitudes;
We lose ourselves in them, and all our cares."
Here is a charming picture,—
"Before us shone the sun.
The angel waved her hand ere she began,
As bidding earth be still. The birds ceased singing,
And the trees breathing, and the lake smoothed down
Each shining wrinklet, and the wind drew off.
Time leant him o'er his scythe, and, listening, wept."
Speaking of men of genius, he says,—
"Men whom we built our love round, like an arch
Of triumph, as they pass us on their way
To glory and to immortality."
The vague aspirations of one living in his ideas is thus expressed,—
"I cannot think but thought
On thought springs up, illimitably, round,
As a great forest sows itself; but here
There is nor ground nor light enough to live.