Again, in “The Two Visions,” was the low moan of a poet’s stricken heart. “Through days of toil, through nightly fears, A vision blessed my heart for years; And so secure its features grew, My heart believed the blessing true. I saw her there, a household dove, In consummated peace of love, And sweeter joy and saintlier grace Breathed o’er the beauty of her face.” “That vision died, in drops of woe, In blotting drops, dissolving slow: Now, toiling day and sorrowing night, Another vision fills my sight. A cold mound in the winter snow; A colder heart at rest below; A life in utter loneness hurled, And darkness over all the world.” How accurately he portrayed his inner life, from the death of Mary to his subsequent marriage, can only be understood by reading his poem of “The Poet’s Journal” entire. But, as far as brief quotations may give it, we will try to supply enough for the purposes of a book suck as this is intended to be. In his despair he writes:— “And every gift that Life to me had given Lies at my feet, in useless fragments trod: There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven: There is no pity in the heart of God.” ... “I pine for something human, Man, woman, young or old— Something to meet and welcome, Something to clasp and hold. I have a mouth for kisses, But there’s no one to give and take; I have a heart in my bosom Beating for nobody’s sake.” “The sea might rise and drown me,— Cliffs fall and crush my head,— Were there one to love me, living, Or weep to see me dead!” ... “Last night the Tempter came to me, and said: ‘Why sorrow any longer for the dead? The wrong is done: thy tears and groans are naught: Forget the Past,—thy pain but lives in thought. Night after night, I hear thy cries implore An answer: she will answer thee no more. Give up thine idle prayer that Death may come And thou mayst somewhere find her: Death is dumb To those that seek him. Live: for youth is thine. Let not thy rich blood, like neglected wine, Grow thin and stale, but rouse thyself, at last, And take a man’s revenge upon the Past.’” ... “This heart is flesh, I cannot make it stone: This blood is hot, I cannot stop its flow, These arms are vacant—whereso’er I go, Love lies in other’s arms and shuns my own.” ... “Long, long ago, the Hand whereat I railed In blindness gave me courage to subdue This wild revolt: I see wherein I failed: My heart was false, when most I thought it true, My sorrow selfish, when I thought it pure. For those we lose, if still their love endure Translation to that other land, where Love Breathes the immortal wisdom, ask in heaven No greater sacrifice than we had given On earth, our love’s integrity to prove. If we are blest to know the other blest, Then treason lies in sorrow.” ...