Oh! I shall die of tasting in my dreams
Poison of love and ecstasy of pain;
For I shall never kneel to thee again,
Or sit in bowers, or wander by the streams
Of golden vales, or of the morning beams
Construct a wreath to crown thee on the plain!
XVIII.
Yet it were easy, too, to compass this,
So thou wert kind; and easy to my soul