Sonnet XXIII: Prostrate on earth the lofty column lies

Prostrate on earth the lofty column lies,
That late sustained my life; oh how much joy,
How many hopes did one dark day destroy!
And on the wind each blest idea flies.
How sure to fail is Fancy, when she tries
To build aught durable for me! fresh woes
Come with the force of persecuting foes,
And like abandoned things my hopes chastise:
Oft times I yield, yet oft my tyrants face,
With a new fury that might break in twain
A mountain placed to bar my way--impell'd
By the desire some day to turn again--
Turn to behold her loveliness and grace,
Whom it were better ne'er to have beheld.