V

She lays down the book, and sits musing:

How true! how true!--but words are weak, In sympathy they give the soul, To music--music, that can speak All the heart’s pain and dole; All that the sad heart treasures most Of love that ’s lost, of love that ’s lost.-- I would not hear sweet music now. My heart would break to hear it now.

So weary am I, and so fain To see his face, to feel his kiss Thrill rapture through my soul again!-- There is no hell like this!-- Ah, God! my God, were it not best To give me rest, to give me rest!-- Come, death, and breathe upon my brow. Sweet death, come kiss my mouth and brow.