Canto XX

The lesser griefs that may be said,

      That breathe a thousand tender vows,

      Are but as servants in a house

Where lies the master newly dead;

Who speak their feeling as it is,

      And weep the fulness from the mind:

      'It will be hard' they say 'to find

Another service such as this.'

My lighter moods are like to these,

      That out of words a comfort win;

      But there are other griefs within,

And tears that at their fountain freeze;

For by the hearth the children sit

      Cold in that atmosphere of Death,

      And scarce endure to draw the breath,

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit:

But open converse is there none,

      So much the vital spirits sink

      To see the vacant chair, and think,

'How good! how kind! and he is gone.'