about how to launch my campaign, flying to New York at

We watch it from the darkling way:

'Twas ours, that palace, in our youth,

We revelled there in happy cheer:

Who scarce dare visit now in sooth,

For not the boughs of forest green

There is a mist where we have been

That weeps about it, cold and grey.

'Tis through a thicket dim and sere,