In moments of great anxiety there is a sort of natural superstition about the heart, which the reason rejects in cooler moments. - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

But song has touch'd my lips with fire,
And made my heart a shrine;
For what, although alloy'd, debased,
Is in itself divine.

One rich light
Broke thro' the shadow of the tempest's wing,
While the black clouds, with gold and purple edged,
Caught every moment warmer hues, until
'Twas all one sparkling arch, and, like a king
In triumph o'er his foes, the Sun god sought
The blue depths of the sea ; — the waters yet
Were ruffled with the storm, and the white foam
Yet floated on the billows, while the wind
Murmured at times like to an angry child,
Who sobs even in his slumber.

A single grave! —the only one
In this unbroken ground,
Where yet the garden leaf and flower
Are lingering around.