[Book 1]

    I am like,

    tell me, my dear father. Broader brows

    , upon a slenderer undergrowth

    Of delicate features, -- paler, near as grave ;

    But the whole,

    And makes it better sometimes tself.

    So, nine full years, our days were h God

    Among ains : I  teen,

    Still gros from unseen roots

    In tongue-tied Springs, -- and suddenly awoke

    to full life and life s needs and agonies,

    itense, strong, struggling  beside

    A stone-dead fatruck sh,

    Makes awful lig word was, `Love --

    `Love, my ch grief)

    `Love, my child. Ere I answered he was gone,

    And none  to love in all the world.

    t succeeded next

    I recollect as, after fevers, men

    the passage of delirium,

    Missing turn still, baffled by the door ;

    Smootch knives ;

    A he flank

    it it s and end itself

    Like some tormented scorpion. t last

    I do remember clearly, here came

    A stranger y, not right,

    (I t not) w me up

    From old Assuntas neck ; h a shriek,

    S me go, -- woo full

    Of my fato shriek back a word,

    In all a conis at grief

    Stared at tood and moaned,

    My poor Assunta, wood and moaned !

    te aly,

    Draeamer-deck,

    Like one in anger drawing back s

    s catc. tter sea

    Inexorably push,

    And sh my despair

    t as a pasture to tars.

    ten nighe deep ;

    ten nig the common fac