“Deep violets, you liken to The kindest eyes that look on you, Without a thought disloyal.”

“XI I sang his name instead of song; Over and over I sang his name: Backward and forward I sang it along, With my sweetest notes, it was still the same! I sang it low, that the slave-girls near Might never guess, from what they could hear, That all the song was a name.”

“For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.”

“Yet how proud we are,In daring to look down upon ourselves!”

“Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.”

“All dark and comfortless.”

“O wretched state! o bosom black as death!”

“Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.”