On our sweet slumberer’s face? The hour is come—
The couch made ready for his last repose.
Agnes. Not yet! thou canst not take him from me yet!
If he but left me for a few short days,
This were too brief a gazing time to draw
His angel image into my fond heart,
And fix its beauty there. And now—oh! now,
Never again the laughter of his eye
Shall send its gladdening summer through my soul
—Never on earth again. Yet, yet delay!