much to exult impersonally in the force that chariots the
decaying leaves, spreads the seeds abroad, wakes the
Mediterranean from its slumber, and cleaves the Atlantic, as to
cry out in the pain of his own helplessness and failure:

"Oh life me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud."

Or an autumn day in the Euganean hills, growing from misty
morning through blue noon to twilight, brings, as he looks over
"the waveless plain of Lombardy," a short respite:

"Many a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of misery;
Or the Mariner, worn and wan,
Ne'er thus could voyage on."

The contrast between the peaceful loveliness of nature and his
own misery is a piteous puzzle. On the beach near Naples

"The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might."

But

"Alas! I have nor hope nor health,