And evermore does weep at what he dreams,
And then does weep that he should dream no more.
In darkest fancies all that night I lay,
A murderess, guilty of Doretta’s death.
XXXIV.
Alas! and after those long hours of woe,
More woe awaited me when morning came.
Our Haydn’s bed-worn frame, so frail before,
New-rent by throes of passion yesterday,