Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. - Thomas Hood

Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.