<h2><SPAN name="page209"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>“NON DOLET”</h2>
<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> does not
hurt. She looked along the knife<br/>
Smiling, and watched the thick drops mix and run<br/>
Down the sheer blade; not that which had been
done<br/>
Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman wife,<br/>
But that which was to do yet ere the strife<br/>
Could end for each for ever, and the sun:<br/>
Nor was the palm yet nor was peace yet won<br/>
While pain had power upon her husband’s life.</p>
<p class="poetry">It does not hurt, Italia. Thou art
more<br/>
Than bride to bridegroom; how shalt thou not take<br/>
The gift love’s blood has reddened for thy
sake?<br/>
Was not thy lifeblood given for us before?<br/>
And if love’s heartblood can avail thy
need,<br/>
And thou not die, how should it hurt indeed?</p>
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