Canto XX

The lesser griefs that may be said,    That breathe a thousand tender vows,    Are but as servants in a house Where lies the master newly dead;

Who speak their feeling as it is,    And weep the fulness from the mind:    "It will be hard," they say, "to find Another service such as this."

My lighter moods are like to these,    That out of words a comfort win;    But there are other griefs within, And tears that at their fountain freeze;

For by the hearth the children sit    Cold in that atmosphere of Death,    And scarce endure to draw the breath, Or like to noiseless phantoms flit;

But open converse is there none,    So much the vital spirits sink    To see the vacant chair, and think, "How good! how kind! and he is gone."