Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here, shall close ne’er,
But with the closing tomb.
See this again, in the affection with which he loved the sombre phases of external nature, and the force with which he painted them. Thus he meditates in Winter:
The sweeping blast—the sky o’ercast—
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,