The gods of anger have bestirred my pen.
Where is your magic now? Or your caress?
The pressure of your arms, your tenderness?
I’ll tear myself away from these, since men
Are not as angels are—eternally.
Damnation!—ah, but hush—see, my wild hands!
If pity be the food my heart demands,
Then for the love of heaven pity me.
XIV.
Or do not pity me. Love is too great