The straggling moonlight, and the merry breeze,
Like two fair elves, that, by the murmuring seas,
Woo'd smilingly together; but there fell
No life-gleam on the brow, all terrible
Becoming, through its beauty, like a cloud
That waneth paler even than a shroud,
All gorgeous and all glorious before;
For waste, like to the wanton night, was o'er
Her virgin features, stealing them away--
Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè?

"Enough! enough! Oh God! but I have pray'd
To thee, in early daylight and in shade,
And the mad curse is on me still--and still!
I cannot alter the Eternal will--
But--but--I hate thee, Agathè! I hate
What lunacy hath bade me consecrate:
I am _not_ mad!--_not now!_--I do not feel
That slumberous and blessed opiate steal
Up to my brain--Oh! that it only would,
To people this eternal solitude
With fancies, and fair dreams, and summer mirth,
Which is not now--And yet, my mother earth,
I would not love to lie above thee so,
As Agathè lies there--oh! no! no! no!
To have these clay-worms feast upon my heart!
And all the light of being, to depart
Into a dismal shadow! I could die
As the red lightnings, quenching amid sky
Their wild and wizard breath; I could away,