Now where the swift Rhine cleaves his way between Heights which appear, as lovers who have parted In haste, whose mining depths so intervene, That they can meet no more, though broken hearted; Though in their souls which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life’s bloom, and then departed⁠— Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winter⁠—war within themselves to wage.