The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years, and subject only
To the soft handling of the elements:
There let it lie—how foolish are such thoughts!
Forgive them;—never—never did my steps
Approach this door but she who dwelt within[63]
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her
As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,[AV]
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger