For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.
But Life will suit Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste
The sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.
For in itself a thought, a slumbering thought, is capable of years, and curdles a long life into one hour.