O that I were now dead! but such
(Did they not, love, demand too much,
Those dying murmurs?) he forbade. 
O that I once again were mad! 1190
And yet, dear Rosalind, not so,
For I would live to share thy woe. 
Sweet boy! did I forget thee too? 
Alas, we know not what we do
When we speak words. 
No memory more 1195
Is in my mind of that sea shore. 
Madness came on me, and a troop
Of misty shapes did seem to sit
Beside me, on a vessel’s poop,
And the clear north wind was driving it. 1200
Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers,
And the stars methought grew unlike ours,
And the azure sky and the stormless sea
Made me believe that I had died,
And waked in a world, which was to me 1205
Drear hell, though heaven to all beside: 
Then a dead sleep fell on my mind,
Whilst animal life many long years
Had rescued from a chasm of tears;
And when I woke, I wept to find 1210
That the same lady, bright and wise,
With silver locks and quick brown eyes,
The mother of my Lionel,
Had tended me in my distress,
And died some months before.  Nor less 1215
Wonder, but far more peace and joy,
Brought in that hour my lovely boy;
For through that trance my soul had well
The impress of thy being kept;
And if I waked, or if I slept, 1220
No doubt, though memory faithless be,
Thy image ever dwelt on me;
And thus, O Lionel, like thee
Is our sweet child.  ’Tis sure most strange
I knew not of so great a change, 1225
As that which gave him birth, who now
Is all the solace of my woe.

That Lionel great wealth had left
By will to me, and that of all
The ready lies of law bereft 1230
My child and me, might well befall. 
But let me think not of the scorn,
Which from the meanest I have borne,
When, for my child’s beloved sake,
I mixed with slaves, to vindicate 1235
The very laws themselves do make: 
Let me not say scorn is my fate,
Lest I be proud, suffering the same
With those who live in deathless fame.

She ceased.—­’Lo, where red morning thro’ the woods 1240
Is burning o’er the dew;’ said Rosalind. 
And with these words they rose, and towards the flood
Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind
With equal steps and fingers intertwined: 
Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore 1245
Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses
Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies,