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Yet sleep, I do not wish to look Again within those languid eyes; Sleep, though again the heavy lash May never from their beauty rise.

—Aid, hope for me?—now hold thy peace, And take that healing cup away: Life, length of life, to that poor child!— It is not life for which I pray.

Why should she live for pain, for toil, For wasted frame, and broken heart; Till life has only left, in death, With its base fear of death to part!