To live on for the rest.”
On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta!—Shot.
Tell His Mother. Ah, ah, “his,” “their” mother,—not “mine,”
No voice says “my mother” again to me. What!
You think Guido forgot?
Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,
They drop earth’s affections, conceive not of woe?
I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so