Could weave such death-black shrouds from thread so bright,
Drawn from sleek skeins of love. That spider-fiend,
Feeding on our sweet plans, emits this web,
To trip and trap us in like flies!—Ah me,
It may be well that one should suffer here
Until a wish bereaved shriek prayers for death;
But through what fearful pangs earth peels away
This withering flesh from off the worthier soul!
The scales about my own grow thin, how thin!
Pauline and Haydn gone, and home, and hope,—