LXXXV.

“Lo! what a lovely ruin thou hast made! 
Alas! alas! thou hast no eye to see,
And blindly slew’st him in misguided shade. 
Would I had lent my doting sense to thee! 
But now I turn to thee, a willing mark,
Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark!”

LXXXVI.

“O doubly cruel!—­twice misdoing spite,
But I will guide thee with my helping eyes,
Or—­walk the wide world through, devoid of sight,—­
Yet thou shalt know me by my many sighs. 
Nay, then thou should’st have spared my roses, false Death,
And known Love’s flow’r by smelling his sweet breath;”

LXXXVII.

“Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing,
Love should have grown from touching of his skin;
But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling. 
And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within,
And being but a shape of freezing bone,
Thy touching only turn’d my love to stone!”

LXXXVIII.

“And here, alas! he lies across my knees,
With cheeks still colder than the stilly wave. 
The light beneath his eyelids seems to freeze;
Here then, since Love is dead and lacks a grave,
O come and dig it in my sad heart’s core—­
That wound will bring a balsam for its sore!”

LXXXIX.

“For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill
Lies stingless, like a sense benumb’d with cold,
Healing all hurts only with sleep’s good-will? 
So shall I slumber, and perchance behold
My living love in dreams,—­O happy night,
That lets me company his banish’d spright!”

XC.

“O poppy Death!—­sweet poisoner of sleep;
Where shall I seek for thee, oblivious drug,
That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep
Out of life’s coil?  Look, Idol! how I hug
Thy dainty image in this strict embrace,
And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face!”

XCI.

“Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps,
I do but read my sorrows by their shine;
O come and quench them with thy oozy damps,
And let my darkness intermix with thine;
Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see? 
Now love is death,—­death will be love to me!”

XCII.

“Away, away, this vain complaining breath,
It does but stir the troubles that I weep;
Let it be hush’d and quieted, sweet Death;
The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep,—­
Since love is silent, I would fain be mute;
O death, be gracious to my dying suit!”

XCIII.