A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,
The weariness, the endless pain
Of waiting for some one to come
Who nevermore would come again.