Of her still hand in mine. And so I came
Gladly unto her. Yea, I, too, would rob
Time of his triumphs.—Who would groan and sob
Beneath his fardels, hearing sad men sigh
When here is cure?—for Life, that, like a lob,
Rides us to death; for Love, a godless lie;
And Toil and Hunger.—Yea, what fool would fear to die?
XII
Then seemed I wrapped in rolling mists, and, oh,
Her arm was round me and her kisses dear