XXVII — [Published in the Gem: A Literary Annual. London: W. Marshall, Holborn Bars, MDCCCXXXI.]
O sad No more! O sweet No more!
O strange No more!
By a mossed brookbank on a stone
I smelt a wildweed flower alone;
There was a ringing in my ears,
And both my eyes gushed out with tears.
Surely all pleasant things had gone before,
Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee,
NO MORE!