(That pulse of life) her warm and loving heart!
Far other tongues beside the poet’s lyre
There are to teach us that we often do
But “let our young affections run to waste
And water but the desert”—that we make
An idol to ourselves—we bow before
Its worshiped altar-stone, and even while
Our incense-wreaths of adoration rise
It crumbles down before that breath, a mass
Of shining dust; we garner in our hearts