And wail for arms that have embraced their last.
I wish no more, as once I wished, each feeling
To grow immortal in my happy breast;
Since not to feel will leave no wounds for healing—
The pulse that thrills not has no need of rest.
As the conviction sinks into my spirit
That my quick heart is doomed to death in life;
Or that these pangs must pierce and never sear it,
I am abandoned to despairing strife.
To the lost life, alas! no more returning—