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.’