⁠And in the glare of Hell;
My spirit drank a mingled tone,
Of seraph's song, and demon's moan;
What my soul bore, my soul alone
⁠Within itself may tell!

Like a soft air above a sea,
⁠Tossed by the tempest's stir;
A thaw-wind, melting quietly
The snow-drift on some wintry lea;
No: what sweet thing resembles thee,
⁠My thoughtful Comforter?

And yet a little longer speak,
⁠Calm this resentful mood;
And while the savage heart grows meek,
For other token do not seek,
But let the tear upon my cheek
⁠Evince my gratitude!