V.

Morns like these we parted; Noons like these she rose, Fluttering first, then firmer, To her fair repose.

Never did she lisp it, And 't was not for me; She was mute from transport, I, from agony!

Till the evening, nearing, One the shutters drew -- Quick! a sharper rustling! And this linnet flew!

A death-blow is a life-blow to some Who, till they died, did not alive become; Who, had they lived, had died, but when They died, vitality begun.