I ha' seen them mid the clouds on the heather.
Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover,
When the white hart breaks his cover
And the white wind breaks the morn.
"_'Tis the white stagy Fame, we're a-hunting,
Bid the world's hounds come to horn!_"
_Piccadilly_
_Beautiful, tragical faces,_
_Ye that were whole, and are so sunken;_
_And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved,_
_That are so sodden and drunken,_
_Who hath forgotten you?_
_O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!_
_The gross, the coarse, the brazen,_
_God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do,_
_But, oh, ye delicate, wistful faces,_
_Who hath forgotten you?_