Then said he, "Love, my word! is it then naught?"
But now he felt fierce kisses over and over,
And laughter of "Thy word?—Art thou my lover?—
Kisses are more than words!—Come, give them me!—
As for thy word—I give it back to thee!"
Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,
Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;
From out her form a pearly light is shed,
As, from a lily in a lily-bed,
A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,