The Mother’s Tragedy

THE MOTHER’S TRAGEDY 13 ULRIC. My Cora! old! But urgently a word Came of some purpose. - I am half afraid To hear it—and yourself! Reluctance sits Doggéd against the will to speak. Dear friend, Let us sit close and whisper. GORA. Listen, then! You are grown man: young men seek happiness. Is there one joy your soul hath never felt ? One pure sweet passion ? ULRIC. Sweet! you speak of love! You must have guessed I meant to question you, And smoothed the passage to my modesty. CORA, with bitter sorrow at her heart. You make me very glad. Yes, yes, indeed, , Love is my meaning. Does it shame me much To talk so openly of love to you ? But I am old enough to be—to be ULRIC. My wife! O Cora, I have loved you so! My heart is like a fountain of the sea. I burn, I tremble; in my veins there swims A torrid ecstasy of madness. Ah! Ah God! I kiss you, kiss you! O you faint!