Than our hearts hold, that throb from birth
With wavering flames insphered.

And when from me the gems you took,
On that strange April day,
My nature, too, I gave, that shook
With passion's fateful play.

The mingled fate my love should give
In these mute emblems shone,
That more intensely burn and live--
While I am turned to stone.


V

_Listen now to what is said
By the eighth opal, flashing red
And pale, by turns, with every breath--
The voice of the lover after death._


EIGHTH OPAL

I did not know before
That we dead could rise and walk;
That our voices, as of yore,
Would blend in gentle talk.

I did not know her eyes