XXXIX.

“Sack-cloth, the fast, the scourge could not o’ercome The force of passion tyrant-strong like this; Heart-rooted, it can ne’er be torn but from My heart with life. Grief, anguish, Death e’en, miss The aim to mar it. Memory’s self is bliss-- An anguished bliss--the only I can know. My love hath fed on agony. A kiss, Stol’n from thee once unwilling, soothed my wo, When after days of fast had laid me fainting low!