Sublime

Here is a man tallied – he realizes here what he has in him, The past, the future, majesty, love – if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

Those words of Lydgate’s were like a sad milestone marking how far he had travelled from his old dreamland, in which Rosamond Vincy appeared to be that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverence her husband’s mind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaid, using her comb and looking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of his adored

an unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation: an arid wilderness of furze and whinstone.