Their verdure from one trunk, and cannot know
A life-drop but from thence? The topmost bough
Still withers first: whilst mine is green on high,
I feel—and fear not—that thou canst not die!
Would that my life’s blood, warm and healthful now,
Were welling in thy veins—and I like thee!
’Twere joy to suffer for thee, could I hear
Thy light laugh, as of old, ring in my ear:
So thou wert happy what aught else to me?
An angel-ward our mother’s prayers have set