Chapter XLIII

I wrought and rested; it was all in vain.
My highest consolation was the hope
That hard-earn’d sleep might hold me long in dreams
Where evermore my soul might with her dwell,
Though every morn I seem’d yet more alone.
Awake, asleep, throned constant o’er my heart,
I served this image all intangible,
This photographic fantasy of truth,
This fairy nothingness of vanish’d fact,
A shape to love, minute yet mighty still,
To senses nothing, but to spirit all.