I am but half myself. The life in me

I

I

I

Is nigh crush'd out; and, though I seem to see

Glory, and grace, and joy, as in the past,

They are but shadows on the cozening blast,

And dreams of devils and distorted things,

And snakes coiled up that look like wedding rings,

And faded flowers that once were fit for wreaths

In bygone summers and in perish'd springs.

xviii.

[48] 

[48]

There is a curse in every garden place,

T

T

T

And when, at night, the lily's holy face

Looks up to God, it seems to chide me there.

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