That seem’d as narrowing round me, making less
And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom,
That bright dream vanish’d from my loneliness!
It floated off, the beautiful! yet left
Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft,
I lay down, sick with passion’s vain excess,
And pray’d to die. How oft would sorrow weep
Her weariness to death, if he might come like sleep!
XIV.
But I was roused—and how? It is no tale,