Canto XX
The lesser griefs that may be said,That breathe a thousand tender vows,Are but as servants in a houseWhere 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 findAnother 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 sitCold 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 sinkTo see the vacant chair, and think,‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’