Chapter XXIII

This wrinkled winter when the ruined sun
Founders in the west and sinks below,
I love to say your name, so grave and slow,
While the clock strikes another day now done.

And saying it so ravishes my voice
That from my lips it sinks into my heart,
And among all sweet words that there have part,
Makes me the most ardently rejoice.

And in the wind of dawn or evening's breath
Changeless I reiterate the theme;
Oh, think with what a passion, strong, supreme,
Shall I pronounce it at the hour of death!