VIII.
I did not sleep at all: but she:—
O face of deathless agony!
O torture of hell’s worm, to wrest
From peace that miserable breast!
Me, me she strikes in mid-delight
Staggered and shattered at the sight,
The moment that she slept. I laughed
Thereat: the bowl I idly quaffed
Was nectar: she amused me, so.
You see, my friend, I did not know.
I also slept at morn. Then, then,
A low voice whispered in the den:
‘* Lucky young fellow! Brave and clever!
This sort of thing goes on for ever,”
IX,
On earth I dreaded impotence,
Age, death. You see, I had no sense.
Best be an old man ere you die;
They wish insensibility,
So are their pains the duller. Hell
Is managed infinitely well
106