Thou felon anchorite of pain Who sittest in a world of slain. - John Warren, 3rd Baron de Tabley

A fair girl tripping out to meet her love,
Trimmed in her best, fresh as a clover bud.
An old crone leaning at an ember’d fire,
Short-breath’d in sighs and moaning to herself—
And all the interval of stealing years
To make that this, and one by one detach
Some excellent condition; till Despair
Faint at the vision, sadly, fiercely blinds
Her burning eyes on her forgetful hands.

Sweet are the ways of death to weary feet, Calm are the shades of men.
The phantom fears no tyrant in his seat, The slave is master then.Love is abolish’d; well, that this is so; We knew him best as Pain.
The gods are all cast out, and let them go! Who ever found them gain?Ready to hurt and slow to succour these; So, while thou breathest, pray.
But in the sepulchre all flesh has peace; Their hand is put away.

Sigh, heart, and break not; rest, lark, and wake not! Day I hear coming to draw my Love away.
As mere-waves whisper, and clouds grow crisper, Ah, like a rose he will waken up with day!