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