She kept all her love to herself alone, all alone,
But let her concealment, like a pearl in the clam,
Feed on her rosy cheek: she pined in thought,
And with a blue and even bluer melancholy,
She stood there like Dido by the River of Lethe,
Smiling gently at the last shadow of memory.
P.S.: A new life can mean anything, which spawns multiple kinds of rebirth in any kind: Born-again Christians believe that their newly professed baptismal promise will gain them new strength in life through conversion to God. Reformed characters want to right the ship derelict in the maelstrom of life. In this regard, I think lonely hearts hardened by the absence of love should deserve a new life filled with the pleasure of love in the same way the heartbroken Psyche descended upon the Hades and found her lost love, Eros. It’s about the soul redeeming through love. This is my kind of New Life, the Supreme One of Life, which sets a confined soul, such as the narrator of my poem, free from unjust and cruel incarceration in an existential drudgery.