We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. - Thomas Hood

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

One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!

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.