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.