Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye
To the loved object—so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be—that object—hid
From us in life, but common—which doth lie
Each hour before us—but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,
To awake us—’Tis a symbol and a token