'O talk of it, Harry—O talk of it!'
His eyes are full of a helpless regret
(And I almost wish I was lying dead);
Will he not talk of it? not even yet?—
He speaks in a whisper, and shakes his head.
'I cannot—I dare not.' 'You can—you dare—
You must do it, Harry—just for my sake;
For this burthen, which it is not to bear,
Is crushing my heart, and my heart will break.'
He kisses my lips—he presses my hand—