Laborious for no worthy gain,
Spat on by the Imps of pain,
All for naught, this effort seems,
As noted in my nightly dreams.
...
The pensive moon doth paint the sea—
In frosts of white and silver glee…
Chilly—chilly blows the tree
Standing awed by Purity…
...
The dead beloved flashes the inward eye—
Though Scripture saith once to die…
Still, this eve—the crackling fade in summer,
She visits my inward self— one to not remember…
...