IV.
 

O heart, how fares it with thee now,
    That thou should’st fail from thy desire,
    Who scarcely darest to inquire,
‘What is it makes me beat so low?’

Something it is which thou hast lost,
    Some pleasure from thine early years.
    Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,
That grief hath shaken into frost!

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
    All night below the darken’d eyes;
    With morning wakes the will, and cries,
‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’