CHAPTER EIGHT
I cannot bear this hour—I cannot bear it—
I cannot watch its slow and tremulous dying.
Shall I deny it—mocking my denying—?
Or shall I weave a veil of words and wear it?
Yet, having woven it, shall I not tear it
With tears? I heard a messenger come crying—
Lo, here is thy lost joy.... But he was lying.
The thief who stole my joy would never share it.