A friend of thine and mine, who, in the gloom
Of her own soul, had built herself a tomb,
To tremble there, when tears had ceas'd to run.
XVIII.
On this I brooded; but ah! not for this
Did I abandon what I sought the while:
The dear damnation of thy tender smile,
And all the tortures that were like a bliss,
And all the raptures of a holier kiss