To talk so wildly? Have I sinn'd in this?
An angel's mouth was surely meant to kiss!
Or have I dreamt of courtship out in Inde
In some wild wood? My soul is fever-thinn'd,
And fierce and faint, and frauded of its bliss.
XI.
I will not weep. I will not in the night
Weep or lament, or, bending on my knees,
Appeal for pity! In the clustered trees
The wind is boasting of its one delight;