Lines

How deadly the blow I received When of thee, O my darling, bereaved! No more up the hill I shall bound, No strength in my poor foot is found; No joy o'er my visage shall break 'Till from out the cold earth I awake. Of the corn like the very top grain, Or the pine 'mongst the shrubs of the plain, Or the moon 'mongst the starlets above, Went thou amongst women, my love!