Through the deviced oriel; and he lays
His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze
To the chill earth. He had the youthful look
Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook
At every gust of the unholy breeze
That entered through the time-worn crevices.
A score of summers only o’er his brow
Had passed—and it was summer, even now
The one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears,
Over a waste of melancholy years!