XXIII br br Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead, br Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine? br And would the sun for thee more coldly shine br Because of grave-damps falling round my head? br I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read br Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine— br But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine br While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead br Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.