“Sack-cloth, the fast, the scourge could not o’ercome
The force of passion tyrant-strong like this;
Heart-rooted, it can ne’er be torn but from
My heart with life. Grief, anguish, Death e’en, miss
The aim to mar it. Memory’s self is bliss—
An anguished bliss—the only I can know.
My love hath fed on agony. A kiss,
Stol’n from thee once unwilling, soothed my wo,
When after days of fast had laid me fainting low!
XL.