Not though my tears should fall, as through a sieve
The salt sea-sand? What joy hast thou in this:
To be a maid, and marvel at a kiss?
Say! Must I die, to prove that I can live?
IV.
Shall this be so? E'en this? And all my love
Wreck'd in an instant? No, a gentle heart
Beats in thy bosom; and the shades depart
From all fair gardens, and from skies above,
When thou art near. For thou art like a dove,