Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.

Memory, in widow's weeds, with naked feet stands on a tombstone.

Man should be ever better than he seems.

Power's footstool is opinion and his throne the human heart.

There is no remedy for time misspent; No healing for the waste of idleness, Whose very languor is a punishment Heavier than active souls can feel or guess.

O Love-star of the unbeloved March, When cold and shrill, Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill, And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill!