Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
And that she did not die, but lived to tend
Her agèd father, were a kind of madness,
If madness 'tis to be unlike the world.

For but to see her were to read the tale

Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts

Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief; —
Her eyes were black and lustreless and wan:
Her eyelashes were worn away with tears,
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead-
so pale;

Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins

And weak articulations might be seen

Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead

self

Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,

Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!

"Inheritor of more than earth can give, Passionless calm and silence unreproved,

Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep!

rest,

And are the uncomplaining things they see Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love; Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph wer Peace!"

This was the only moan she ever made.

Cancelled Passage of
Mont Blanc

HERE is a voice, not understo

by all,

Sent from these desert-caves.

is the roar

Of the rent ice-cliff which the sunbeams call.

Plunging into the vale- it is the blast Descending on the pines the torre

"

The Sunset.

The moon lingeringly rose between the black trunks

of the crowded trees."