No other sun has brightened up my heaven,

No other star has ever shone for me;

All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,

All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when my days of golden dreams had perished,

And even Despair was powerless to destroy,

Then did I learn how existence might be cherished,

Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.

And even now, I dare not let it languish,

Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain;

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,

How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Brontë [and Daphne du Maurier]

And so on, and so forth.