In This Fair Stranger'S Eyes Of Grey Thine Eyes, My Love, I See. I Shudder: For The Passing Day Had Borne Me Far From Thee. This Is The Curse Of Life: That Not A Nobler Calmer Train Of Wiser Thoughts And Feelings Blot Our Passions From Our Brain; But Each Day Brings Its Petty Dust Our Soon-Chok'D Souls To Fill, And We Forget Because We Must, And Not Because We Will. I Struggle Towards The Light; And Ye, Once-Long'D-For Storms Of Love! If With The Light Ye Cannot Be, I Bear That Ye Remove. I Struggle Towards The Light; But Oh, While Yet The Night Is Chill, Upon Time'S Barren, Stormy Flow, Stay With Me, Marguerite, Still!