About that woman—now in my heart they rise
Confused, as flames from my life's coloured map,
That burns until with wrinkling agony
Its ashes flatten, separate, and drift
Through gusty darkness. Hold me fast by the arm!
A little aid will save me:—See! she's here!
I clasp thy form—I feel thy breath, my love—
And know thee for a sweet saint come to save me!
Save!—is it death I feel—it cannot be death?
Jacconot (half aside.)