And I have mused:—E'en thus may Freedom fall,
And darkness shroud it like a wintry pall,
And night o'erwhelm it, and the shades thereof
Engulf the glories born of perfect love.
VII.
But there's no fall for thee; there is no tomb;
And none shall stab thee, none shall stay thy hand.
Thy face is fair with love's eternal bloom,
And thou shalt have all things at thy command.
A tomb for thee? Ay, when the sun is slain