Chapter VI

How deep the bitterness alone to grieve
In grief's deep hour--the death-watch of the night--
When Fancy can no more her day dreams weave,
And there seems madness in the moon's pale light--
When sorrow holds us, like a life-long state,
Not as a portion, but the whole of fate,
When the mind yields, like sick men to their dreams,
Who know all is not right, yet know not that which seems.