"From whence it comes, you ask, this gloom acute, Like waves that o'er the rocky headland fall?" —When once our hearts have gathered in their fruit, To live is a curse! a secret known to all, A grief, quite simple, nought mysterious, And like your joy—for all, both loud and shrill, Nay cease to clamour, be not e'er so curious! And yet although your voice is sweet, be still! Be still, O soul, with rapture ever rife! O mouth, with the childish smile! Far more than Life, The subtle bonds of Death around us twine. Let—let my heart, the wine of falsehood drink, And dream-like, deep within your fair eyes sink, And in the shade of thy lashes long recline!