_Ob_: 1822, _æt._ 28.
Oh, I have lived through keenest care,
And still may live through more,
We know not what the heart can bear,
Until the worst be o'er;
The _worst_ is not when fears assail,
Before the shaft has sped,
Nor when we kiss the visage, pale
And beautiful, though dead.
Oh, then the heart is nerved to cope
With danger and distress,
The very impulse left by hope
Will make despair seem less;
Then all is life--acute, intense,
The thoughts in tumult tost,
So reels the mind with wildered sense,
It knows not what is lost.
But when that shuddering scene is past,
When earth receives her own,
And, wrench'd from what it loved, at last
The heart is left alone;
When all is gone--our hopes and fears
All buried in one tomb,
And we have dried the source of tears,
There comes a settled gloom.
Then comes the _worst_, the undying thought
That broods within the breast,
Because its loveliest one _is not_,
And what are all the rest?