Chapter XXXIV

A sense of coldness, like the atmosphere,
When chilled by the rude winter's snowy blast,
Has passed between us now: and--lone and sear,
Like the last autumn leaf that fell at last,
Though on its parent stem it fain would stay,
With days, perchance, as bright as yesterday--
Our hopes have fallen--yet, my Mary, yet,
There is no lethean power can teach me to forget.