Of burning blackness. Then I felt the throb
Of her still hand in mine. And so I came
Gladly unto her. Yea, I, too, would rob
Time of his triumphs.--Who would groan and sob
Beneath his fardels, hearing sad men sigh
When here is cure?--for Life, that, like a lob,
Rides us to death; for Love, a godless lie;
And Toil and Hunger.--Yea, what fool would fear to die?