No More Learning

. thou art not here. . . _395
Pale art thou, 'tis most true. . . but thou art gone,
Thy work is finished. . . I am left alone! --
. . .
'Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast
Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest
As in repayment of the warmth it lent?
_400
Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?
Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought
That thou wert she who said, "You kiss me not
Ever, I fear you do not love me now"--
In truth I loved even to my overthrow _405
Her, who would fain forget these words: but they
Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away.
. . .
'You say that I am proud--that when I speak
My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break
The spirit it expresses. . . Never one _410
Humbled himself before, as I have done!
Even the instinctive worm on which we tread
Turns, though it wound not--then with prostrate head
Sinks in the dusk and writhes like me--and dies?
No: wears a living death of agonies! _415
As the slow shadows of the pointed grass
Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass,
Slow, ever-moving,--making moments be
As mine seem--each an immortality!
. . .