Wilt not approach me thoughtfully and say:—
"This man was true. He lov'd me night and day
And though I spurn'd at him, he loves me yet."
XVIII.
Wilt not withhold thy blame, at least to-night,
And shed for me a tear, as one may grieve
For people known in books, for men who weave
Ropes out of sand, to lead them to the light?
Oh! treat me thus, and, by thy hand so white,
I will forego the dreams to which I cleave.