jest, and
now this
that I
pray to be
jest you
say is
awful,
wretched
earnest.
Our moods
meet at
wrong
places. I
wish your
feeling
was more
like mine,
or my
feeling
more like
yours! Oh,
could I
but have
foreseen
the
torture
that
trifling
trick was
going to
lead me
into, how
I should
have
cursed
you; but
only
having
been able
to see it
since, I
cannot do
that, for
I love you
too well!
But it is
weak, idle
drivelling
to go on
like
