Even sadness is withered.

No more can it make me sorrowful to brood over the days that are gone, or to remember the song that once would have made my heart a fountain of tears.

Ah, hah! the folly to think we could love to the end! But I care not; the fancy served its turn; and there is a grave for thee and me--apart or together I care not, so I cease.

Thou needst not love me any more; I care not for thy love.

I hardly care for the blessed darkness itself.