JEZEBEL 
17 
 
 
 
 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
TO die amid the blossoms of the frost 
On far fair heights ; to sleep the quiet sleep 
Of dead men underneath the snowy steep 
Of many mountains ; ever to have lost 
These cares and these distrusts ; to lie alone, 
Watched by the distant eagle’s drowsy wing, 
Stars and grey summits, and the winds that sing 
Slow dirges in eternal monotone. 
 
Such is my soul’s desire, being weary of 
This vain eternity of sleepless dreams 
That is my life ; withal there still may be 
In other worlds, the hope of other love 
Than this that floods my veins with poisonous 
streams, 
And wastes with wan desire the soul of me.