XLIV

May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;

      Like stars to their appointed height they climb,

      And death is a low mist which cannot blot

      The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought

      Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,

      And love and life contend in it, for what

      Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there

And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.