Could wake in loving hearts a moment’s strife”
(I said—my own with Her new image rife),
“’Twere this.” And yet ’tis certain, next to faith,
Thou didst lie down to render up thy breath:
Though after the Seventh Sword no meaner knife
Could pierce that bosom. No, nor did. No sting
Of pain was there, but only joy. The love,
So long thy life ecstatic, and restrained
From setting free thy soul, now gave it wing:
Thy body, soon to reign with it above,