CHAPTER XXXV.
THE USUAL DESTINY OF THE IMAGINATION.
Remembrance makes the poet: 'tis the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men,
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes
That were, and are not; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things;
The more his power, the greater is his grief.
Are we then fallen from some noble star,
Whose consciousness is an unknown curse;
And we feel capable of happiness
Only to know it is not of our sphere?
The first sickly gleam of daylight came in through the uncurtained window, deadening the dull yellow glare of the candle that, having burned through the night, was fast sinking in the socket. The chill and uncomfortable light showed the full wretchedness of the scene
