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The blood new coursing thro' my wither'd veins,
This old, ill, life all done with.
Lenore.(Aside):
He's prepared
(To Sylvester.)
At least to die, aye, it may not be long
Ere Time smooth out the tangled, twisted thread,
The clew that leads us hostel-wards, at night,
To rest at that inevitable inn,
Where Death is heedless and unhasting host.
Sylvester:
Who speaks of Death? I speak of Life made new,
I seek a palace in this glorious World
A fabrick visible, material,
So fair the World, it doth suffice for me,
Let others reconcile them to that rest,
To lie in the low little house where all is done!
