XXVII.

Mixed in each other's arms, and heart in heart, Why did they not then die?--they had lived too long Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart; Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong; The World was not for them--nor the World's art For beings passionate as Sappho's song; Love was born _with_ them, _in_ them, so intense, It was their very Spirit--not a sense.