Sweetly, my mother! Go not yet away—
I have not told my story. Oh, not yet,
With the fair past before me, can I lay
My cheek upon the pillow to forget.
O sweet, fair past, my twenty years of youth
Thus thrown away, not fashioning a man;
But fashioning a memory, forsooth!
More feminine than follower of Pan.
O God! let me not die for years and more!
Fulfil Thyself, and I will live then surely
Longer than a mere childhood. Now heart-sore,
Weary, with being weary—weary, purely.
In dying, mother, I can find no pleasure
Except in being near thee without measure.