Too anxious was I! Hear me, friends, nor blame; You'll pity her -- her in the slumberland -- O pity me? . . . no, no! -- but understand The lonely man who gave the girl his name! Like to "a candle with unsteady flame Through fierce combustion of uncouth element" I said she burned, not only her merriment Being thus random in device and aim: For, though a gentlewoman, read in books, Deep wisdom often in her simple talk (Deeper than ocean's, fresher than the brook's), Though deft of finger with needle, flower, or chalk, Though striving ever with prayer and plan to be In feeling poised, in conduct firm and free |