Its everlasting stain.
“And well,” quoth he, “I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme—
Woe, woe, unutterable woe,[1109]
Who spill life’s sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder in a dream!
“One that had never done me wrong,
A feeble man, and old;
I led him to a lonely field—[1110]