Quickly, which shall he choose? Hark! the captors are hunting him down!
Shuffle of hurrying feet,
Breathings nearer and nearer.
No choice for a man that is doomed, unless straight to the merciful sea.
Up to the toilsome cliffs!
Better death than new anguish!
A cry, a plunge . . . shine, stars, on the ripples that ring that sea.
Soft in the ominous shadow the branches stir by the meadow,
Fair in the lonely distance the dying household glow;
Deep in the dust of the street,