You never accept what you would.
VII
Amidst the rush and roar of life, O beauty, carved in stone, you stand mute and still, alone and aloof.
Great Time sits enamoured at your feet and repeats to you:
“Speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my mute bride!”
But your speech is shut up in stone, O you immovably fair!
VIII
Tell me if this is all true, my lover? tell me if it is true.
When the eyes of me flash their lightning on you, dark clouds in your breast make stormy answer;
Is it then true that the dew drops fall from the night when I am seen, and the morning light is glad when it wraps my body?