Chapter VIII

Then from the body tear this soul away!
Let me seek death; I'll force the hand of Fate!
I will not suffer more. The game I play
Is held against Creation, and the weight
Of all the ages hangs with Fate. Serene,
Stands Death in sable gossamer bedight,
And with maternal arms would intervene,
And seeks to press me silent to her breast.
Quick, let me free my soul from pain! The scene
Is fair--Oh, let this weariness be blest!
But hold--I still may keep this bitter strain
Of self-tormenting torment e'en in rest--
Death summons up the things of life again;
And pain of life transmutes all death to pain.