By peace withheld from me,—do thou relent

And dower my life to-day with one love-word!

xii.

[31] 

[31]

Wouldst thou, Cassandra-wise, oppress my soul

W

W

W

With more unrest, and Hebè-like, the bowl

Of festal comfort for a moment raise

To my poor lips, and then avert thy gaze?

Wouldst make me mad beyond the daily curse

Of thy displeasure, and in wrath disperse

That halcyon draught, that nectar of the mind,

Which is the theme I yearn to in my verse?

xiii.

Oh, by thy pity when so slight a thing

O

O

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