LXXXVIII.
"And here, alas! he lies across my knees,
With cheeks still colder than the stilly wave.
The light beneath his eyelids seems to freeze;
Here then, since Love is dead and lacks a grave,
O come and dig it in my sad heart's core—
That wound will bring a balsam for its sore!"
LXXXIX.
"For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill
Lies stingless, like a sense benumb'd with cold,