Its lying forms were worthy aught
And much less thee.
HELEN.
O speak not so,
But come to me and pour thy woe570
Into this heart, full though it be,
Aye overflowing with its own:
I thought that grief had severed me
From all beside who weep and groan;
Its likeness upon earth to be,575
Its express image; but thou art
More wretched. Sweet! we will not part
Henceforth, if death be not division;
If so, the dead feel no contrition.
But wilt thou hear, since last we parted580
All that has left me broken hearted?
ROSALIND.
Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn
Of their thin beams by that delusive morn
Which sinks again in darkness, like the light
Of early love, soon lost in total night.585
HELEN.
Alas! Italian winds are mild,
But my bosom is cold—wintry cold—
When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves,
Soft music, my poor brain is wild,
And I am weak like a nursling child,590
Though my soul with grief is grey[1] and old.
ROSALIND.
Weep not at thine own words, though they must make
Me weep. What is thy tale?
- ↑ In Shelley's edition gray in this instance, though elsewhere grey.
