"From whence it comes, you ask, this gloom acute, Like waves that o'er the rocky headland fall?"
—When once our hearts have gathered in their fruit,
To live is a curse! a secret known to all,
 
A grief, quite simple, nought mysterious,
And like your joy—for all, both loud and shrill,
Nay cease to clamour, be not e'er so curious!
............