That sister mine—At last, life meant but this,—
To envy that cold tomb, all night, all day,
That held her only.—Norman, pardon me:
Such woe, such loneliness,—ah, strange was it
That oft then I recall’d your form, your words?
And when I render’d forth upon the stage
Scenes you had visioned, phrases you had fram’d,
That then I came to do as you would do,
And think as you would think?—or that my tongue
Should linger o’er your language, as o’er sweets