So the fair moth, within the amber drowned,
Retains its primal form eternally.
O Alf! ’twere better far that we remain
That which we were in former days, and as
We shall unite again,—but not on earth.
“Leave we the beauteous valleys to the happy,
I love the stony stillness of my cell;
For me ’tis bliss enough to see thee living,
And in the evening thy loved voice to hear.
And in this silence, Alf, beloved, we may