XLV.
Torture! the sorrow of affections eye,
Fixing its meekness on the spirit’s core,
Deeper, and teaching more of agony,
May pierce than many swords!—and this I bore
With a mute pang. Since I had vainly striven
From its free springs to pour the truth of heaven
Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor!
Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share:
Alas! for those that love, and may not blend in prayer!