No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.
XXXI.
“Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,—
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth
Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,
In future times—no gentle little one,
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, e’en while life’s last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,