Glazes apace. He does not feel you now—
Stand back! I’ll paint the death dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die
But for one moment—one—till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those cold lips!
“Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now—that was a difficult breath—
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death!
Look! how his temple flutters!
Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!