XXII.
I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart;
I kiss thy lips and call thee mine.
Of thy sweet soul I form a part,
And my poor soul is part of thine.
Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou!
But let me be thy servant now.
XXIII.
What! did I curse thy golden hair?
Well, then, the sun will set at noon;