I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 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.
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, 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.