His force, his folly, fierce or faint delight,—
Suffering or sorrow, fortune, feud, or care,—
Whate’er he find or feel,—he may not share.
Lonely we join the world, and we depart
Even as lonely, having lived alone,
The breast that feeds us, the beloved one’s heart,
The lips we kiss,—or curse—alike unknown.
Ay, even these lips of thine, so often kissed,
What certitude have I that they exist?
Alas, it is the truth, though harsh it seems,