Ix

Such foolish talk! while that one star still Dwells o’er the mountain’s margin-line Till the dawn takes all; one may drink one’s fill Of such quiet; there’s a whisper fine In the leaves a-tremble, and now ’tis dumb; We have lived long years, love, you and I, And the heart grows faint; your lips, then: come,-- It were not so very hard to die.