Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.

I must not say that she was true, Yet let me say that she was fair; And they, that lovely face who view, They should not ask if truth be there.

Then gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, Hush, ye will say, it is eternity! This is the glimmering verge of heaven, and there The columns of the heavenly palaces.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said, Ill and overworked, how fare you in this scene? Bravely! said he; for I of late have been Much cheered with thoughts of Christ, the living bread.

Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.

What then remains, but that we still should cry Not to be born, or being born to die.