But never of their wanton play they tire,
As not athirst they sit beside the springs,
While he must quench in death his lost desire.
44
The image of thy love, rising on dark
And desperate days over my sullen sea,
Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me,
Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.
Whate’er my sorrow be, I then may hark
A loving voice: whate’er my terror be,