Make ends meet

heart? Is thy prayer utter'd for thy mother's soul, Who into long, long torment

slept through thee? Whose blood is on thy threshold? - And stirs there not

already 'neath thy heart Another quick'ning pulse, that even now Tortures

itself and thee With its foreboding presence?

Woe! Woe! Oh could I free me from the thoughts That hither, thither, crowd

upon my brain, Against my will!

Dies irae, dies illa, Solvet saeclum in favilla.

Grim horror seizes thee! The trumpet sounds! The graves are shaken! And