Les vers heriteront de la poussiere de ton corps, mais l'amertume de ton ame, qui en heritera?
Ces extases sublimes, ces tourments affreux; ces hauteurs des cieux, ces profondeurs des abimes; qu'y a-t-il d'assez grand ou d'assez abaisse, d'assez eleve ou d'assez avili pour les revetir en ta place?
Non, tu ne saurais jamais croire que tout meurt avec le corps; ou si tu le pouvais tu n'en serais que plus insense, plus miserable encore.
It is proof how child-like I had been, how obedient in suppressing all forbidden thoughts, that these words smote me with such horror.

I had indulged in no speculation; I had never thought of him as haunted by the self he fled; as still bound to an inexorable and inextinguishable life, "With time and hope behind him cast, And all his work to do with palsied hands and cold." The terrors I had had, had been vague.

I had thought dimly of punishment, more keenly of separation.

If I had analysed my thoughts, I suppose I should have found annihilation to have been my belief--death forever, loss eternal.

But this--if this were truth--( and it smote me as the truth alone can smite), oh, it was maddening.