To you these lines for the consoling grace br Of your great eyes wherein a soft dream shines, br For your pure soul, all-kind!-to you these lines br From the black deeps of mine unmatched distress. br br 'Tis that the hideous dream that doth oppress br My soul, alas! its sad prey ne'er resigns, br But like a pack of wolves down mad inclines br Goes gathering heat upon my reddened trace! br br I suffer, oh, I suffer cruelly! br So that the first man's cry at Eden lost br Was but an eclogue surely to my cry! br br And that the sorrows, Dear, that may have crossed br Your life, are but as swallows light that fly br -Dear!-in a golden warm September sky.