If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,

even now I had accompanied them to their new and incommunicable abode.

Never shall I see them more. I am bereft of their dear converse⁠—bereft of sight of them. I am a tree rent by lightning; never will the bark close over the bared fibres⁠—never will their quivering life, torn by the winds, receive the opiate of a moment’s balm. I am alone in the world⁠—but that expression as yet was less pregnant with misery, than that Adrian and Clara are dead.