To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys.
Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow.
When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. I will turn that earlier page. In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 144 Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest.