Forgive, my Seraph! that such thoughts appear. For sorrow is our element. . . .

The hour is near Which tells me we are not abandoned quite. Appear! Appear! Seraph! My own Azaziel! be but here, And leave the stars to their own light.

Aholibama: I call thee, I await thee and I love thee. Though I be formed of clay, And thou of beams76 More bright than those of day on Eden's streams, Thine immortality cannot repay With love more warm than mine My love. There is a ray77 In me, which though forbidden yet to shine, I feel was lighted at thy God's and mine.78 It may be hidden long: death and decay Our mother Eve bequeathed us—but my heart Defies it: though this life must pass away, Is that a cause for thee and me to part?

I can share all things, even immortal sorrow; For thou hast ventured to share life with me, And shall I shrink from thine eternity? No, though the serpent's sting79 should pierce me through, And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil Around me still.80 And I will smile And curse thee not, but hold Thee in as warm a fold As—but descend and prove A mortal's love For an immortal. . . .