How was I worthy so divine a loss,

    Deepening my midnights, kindling all my morns?

  Why waste such precious wood to make my cross,

    Such far-sought roses for my crown of thorns?
...

Poet:



  She meets me there, so strangely fair

    That my soul aches with a happy pain;—

  A pressure, a touch of her true lips, such

    As a seraph might give and take again;

  A hurried whisper, "Adieu! adieu!
...

Poet: