With woe, which never sleeps or slept, I wander now. 'Tis a vain thought-- But on yon alp, whose snowy head 'Mid the azure air is islanded, (We see it o'er the flood of cloud, _540 Which sunrise from its eastern caves Drives, wrinkling into golden waves, Hung with its precipices proud, From that gray stone where first we met) There now--who knows the dead feel nought?-- _545 Should be my grave; for he who yet Is my soul's soul, once said: ''Twere sweet 'Mid stars and lightnings to abide, And winds and lulling snows, that beat With their soft flakes the mountain wide, _550 Where weary meteor lamps repose, And languid storms their pinions close: And all things strong and bright and pure, And ever during, aye endure: Who knows, if one were buried there, _555 But these things might our spirits make, Amid the all-surrounding air, Their own eternity partake?' Then 'twas a wild and playful saying At which I laughed, or seemed to laugh: _560 They were his words: now heed my praying, And let them be my epitaph. Thy memory for a term may be My monument. Wilt remember me? I know thou wilt, and canst forgive _565 Whilst in this erring world to live My soul disdained not, that I thought Its lying forms were worthy aught And much less thee. HELEN: O speak not so, But come to me and pour thy woe _570 Into this heart, full though it be, Ay, overflowing with its own: I thought that grief had severed me From all beside who weep and groan; Its likeness upon earth to be, _575 Its express image; but thou art More wretched. Sweet! we will not part Henceforth, if death be not division; If so, the dead feel no contrition. But wilt thou hear since last we parted _580 All that has left me broken hearted? ROSALIND: Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn Of their thin beams by that delusive morn Which sinks again in darkness, like the light Of early love, soon lost in total night. _585 HELEN: Alas! Italian winds are mild, But my bosom is cold--wintry cold-- When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves, Soft music, my poor brain is wild, And I am weak like a nursling child, _590 Though my soul with grief is gray and old. ROSALIND: Weep not at thine own words, though they must make Me weep. What is thy tale?