And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame.
Dear, I look from my hiding-place.
Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes?
Be happy! Add but the other grace,
Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt?
I knew you once: but in Paradise,
If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face.
DÎS ALITER VISUM;
OR, LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS
Stop, let me have the truth of that!
Is that all true? I say, the day