Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Of all The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show Who car'd about the corpse? The funeral Made the attraction, and the black the woe; There throbb'd not there a thought which pierc'd the pall.

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning.

Thou who hast The fatal gist of beauty.