THE ISLET.
159
That it makes one weary to hear.'
'Mock me not! mock me not! love, let us go.'
'No, love, no.
For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree,
And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea,
And a worm is there in the lonely wood,
That pierces the liver and blackens the blood,
And makes it a sorrow to be.'
