As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. 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.