XIII.

Then darkness!--oh! th’ unutterable gloom That seem’d as narrowing round me, making less And less my dungeon, when, with all its bloom, That bright dream vanish’d from my loneliness! It floated off, the beautiful! yet left Such deep thirst in my soul, that thus bereft, I lay down, sick with passion’s vain excess, And pray’d to die. How oft would sorrow weep Her weariness to death, if he might come like sleep!