The shorn lamb shivers, but the woolly sheep
Feeds on and fattens thro' the untempered storms.
Felt thro' a curly fleece, the east wind warms,
While far away shines heaven: an azure steep.
We loved thee, Philip, but we could not keep
The wind away, nor quell the pitiless harms
Such sorrow fans from hell. We had no charms
For those blind eyes that lived, but lived to weep.
Yea, weak to heal is Love;' but Death is strong,
Balming the sorest heart that travaileth,
As under bloody wheels of Jaganneth —
Even such a heart as thine — even such a wrong;
Soother of sorrow is he whose deathless song
Keeps all the choral spheres revolving — Death!