Touches not deeply, since the dead they love
Precede them but a stage upon the road
Which they shall tread to-morrow. Yet am I
Young, and thou too, my Gycia; we should walk
The path of life together many years,
But that some strange foreboding troubles me.
For oh, my dear! now that the sun of love
Beams on our days again, my worthless life
Grows precious, and I tremble like a coward