 | Praeterita (1863) |  |
22
AT LAST.
We toss and twist upon a restless bed;Sleep comes at last.
Our Love denies, and yet denies again,
But yields at last.
The apple grows and ripens many days,
But falls at last.
And we are riped with joy, and marr'd with tears,
But end at last!
| Praeterita (1863) | |