Still kist as if his breath her lifeless clay could warm.
XLVI.
But vain his kisses, vain his burning tears,
Though poured in showers like those that left the sky.
Man cannot weep for aye—his brain it sears
To feel such anguish as Beltrán made cry
Beneath the withering stroke of Destiny!
Up from the grave he sprang, and fiercely bore
The coffin-lid—its parts asunder fly—
With spade and mattock into lengths he tore