Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/318

304 To-night I will not press thee. Thou art weary; Thy nerves have scarce regained their tension yet; But from thy deep emotion I can see T will cost thee less than I have feared. To morrow We will talk of this again.

To-morrow !

Now, Good-night. T is time thou shouldst be sleeping.

Father, I cannot leave thee ! Every word of thine Gnaws like a burning coal my sore, soft heart. What ! thou shalt suffer, and thine own Maria Will leave thee daughterless, uncomforted ? What! thou shalt weep, and other eyes than mine Shall see the Spagnoletto s spirit broken ?

There, there, poor child ! Look up, cling not so wildly About my neck. Thou art too finely touched,