To talk of dying.
Vic. Yet I fain would die!
To go through life, unloving and unloved;
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul
We cannot still; that longing, that wild impulse,
And struggle after something we have not
And cannot have; the effort to be strong;
And, like the Spartan boy, to smile and smile
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks:
All this the dead feel not—the dead alone!