A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.’—­
’Nay, this was kind of you—­he had no claim,
As the world says’—­’None—­but the very same
Which I on all mankind were I as he
Fallen to such deep reverse;—­his melody 265
Is interrupted—­now we hear the din
Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin;
Let us now visit him; after this strain
He ever communes with himself again,
And sees nor hears not any.’  Having said 270
These words, we called the keeper, and he led
To an apartment opening on the sea—­
There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully
Near a piano, his pale fingers twined
One with the other, and the ooze and wind 275
Rushed through an open casement, and did sway
His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;
His head was leaning on a music book,
And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;
His lips were pressed against a folded leaf 280
In hue too beautiful for health, and grief
Smiled in their motions as they lay apart—­
As one who wrought from his own fervid heart
The eloquence of passion, soon he raised
His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed 285
And spoke—­sometimes as one who wrote, and thought
His words might move some heart that heeded not,
If sent to distant lands:  and then as one
Reproaching deeds never to be undone
With wondering self-compassion; then his speech 290
Was lost in grief, and then his words came each
Unmodulated, cold, expressionless,—­
But that from one jarred accent you might guess
It was despair made them so uniform: 
And all the while the loud and gusty storm 295
Hissed through the window, and we stood behind
Stealing his accents from the envious wind
Unseen.  I yet remember what he said
Distinctly:  such impression his words made.

‘Month after month,’ he cried, ’to bear this load 300
And as a jade urged by the whip and goad
To drag life on, which like a heavy chain
Lengthens behind with many a link of pain!—­
And not to speak my grief—­O, not to dare
To give a human voice to my despair, 305
But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on
As if I never went aside to groan,
And wear this mask of falsehood even to those
Who are most dear—­not for my own repose—­
Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be 310
So heavy as that falsehood is to me—­
But that I cannot bear more altered faces
Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces,
More misery, disappointment, and mistrust
To own me for their father...Would the dust 315
Were covered in upon my body now! 
That the life ceased to toil within my brow! 
And then these thoughts would at the least be fled;
Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.