Every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay. - Caroline Norton

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers;
There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears.

For death and life, in ceaseless strife, Beat wild on this world’s shore,
And all our calm is in that balm— Not lost but gone before.

O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams.