And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me's a secret yet.
But this I know—when thou art fled,
Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,
No clod so valueless shall be
As all that there remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly?
Where bend unseen thy trackless course?
And in this strange divorce,
Ah, tell where I must seek this compound, I?