Where is comfort? In division of the records of the mind? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? - Alfred Tennyson

And out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, moulding men.

"The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait.

Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.