Chapter III

God gives me life to punish me;
I cling to all that hopes for death,
But ere my soul’s desire I see,
I feel the whirlwind’s vengeful breath.
How many a poor, sad man of grief
Has asked from me the means to live!
But none from me has gained relief,--
My hand has never time to give!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.