An. We part? Just so! I have succumbed,—
I am, he thinks, unworthy—and naught less
Will serve than such approval of my faith.
Then, we part not! Remains there no way short
Of that? Oh, not that!
Death!—yet a hurt bird
Died in my hands; its eyes filmed—"Nay, it sleeps,"
I said, "will wake to-morrow well:" 't was dead.
Dja. I stand here and time fleets. Anael—I come
To bid a last farewell to you: perhaps