XXXV

'Ah, Porphyro!' said she, 'but even now

      Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,

      Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;

      And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:

      How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!

      Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,

      Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!

      Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,

For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.'