But I—canst thou forgive?
Gon. Within this hour
I’ve stood upon that verge whence mortals fall,
And learn’d how ’tis with one whose sight grows dim,
And whose foot trembles on the gulf’s dark side.
Death purifies all feeling: we will part
In pity and in love.
Elm. Death! And thou too
Art on thy way! Oh, joy for thee, high heart!
Glory and joy for thee! The day is closed,