Our youth was happy: why repine
That, like the Year’s, Life’s days decline?
‘Tis well to mingle with the mould
When we ourselves alike are cold,
And when the only tears we shed
Are of the dying on the dead.
“Yet only a moment ago his thoughts, always tending to morbid associations, had blended, in one of those falsely harmonious images that are significant within the dream but meaningless when one recalls it, two recent events.”