For the few little years, out of centuries won,

Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause.

With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow

Such servile devotion might shame him away.

his rags,

The castle still stands, and the senate's

lash

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,

In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;

I am ashes where once I was fire,
And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I now merely admire,
And my heart is as grey as my head.

There are moments which act as a plough; And there is not a furrow appears

But is deep in my soul as my brow.

[First published, 1832.]

ΤΟ

[In Lady Blessington's Conversations with Lord Byron these lines are thus introduced: 'I will give you some stanzas I wrote yesterday (said Byron); they are as simple as even Wordsworth himself could write, and would do for music.']

BUT once I dared to lift my eyes,
To lift my eyes to thee;
And, since that day, beneath the skies,
No other sight they see.

In vain sleep shuts them in the night,
The night grows day to me,
Presenting idly to my sight

What still a dream must be.