Or plague his painless countenance:
I would not any seer might place 65
His staff on my immortal’s face,
Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,
Charm back his pale mortality.
No, Shunamite! I would not break
God’s stillness. Let them weep who wake; 70
For Charlie’s sake my lot is blest:
No comfort like his mother’s breast,
No praise like hers; no charm expressed