To make her bower,—and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died—whose doom
Is beauty's,—she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks, most beautifies the light;
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl,
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul."