Over my head his arm he flung, Against the world.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
When I love most, love is disguised. In hate; and when hate is surprised, in love, then I hate most.
That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
Smiling the boy fell dead.
But how carve way i' the life that lies before, If bent on groaning ever for the past?