Iii

If ever sorrow spoke from soul that loves, As speaks a spirit in a man possest, In me her spirit speaks. My soul it moves, Whose sigh-swoll'n words breed whirlwinds in my breast; Or like the echo of a passing bell, Which sounding on the water seems to howl; So rings my heart a fearful heavy knell, And keeps all night in consort with the owl. My cheeks with a thin ice of tears are clad, Mine eyes like morning stars are bleared and red. What resteth then but I be raging mad, To see that she, my cares' chief conduit-head, When all streams else help quench my burning heart, Shuts up her springs and will no grace impart.