As one whose eyes have watched the stricken day
Swoon to its crimson death adown the sea,
I
Yes, yes, dear love! I am dead!
All the world's ruled by the Dragon -
Fiery, mad, wicked, perverse.
From the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain!
The water washing at the latchel door;
Whose knowledge is a bloody field
Wheare all hope slaine doth lie;
These are enchanted mirrors that I bring,
By demons wrought from metals of the moon
The pendulum, with brazen din,
Proclaims the midnight; we begin
Gnats and an ant have gnawed your nimble bones–
You who could spring and sprawl on your own thread
DEAD man! will you ride with me,
As you rode that night of yore,
They say that poison-sprinkled flowers
Are sweeter in perfume
Awhile she lay all passive to the touch
Of those small fingers, and the soft, soft lips
There is an orb that mocked the lore of sages
Long time with mystery of strange unrest;
The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top
Blood -- blood and torn grass --
Over the rushing river
Where shaggy fir-trees stand,
When, heaving on the stormy waters,
I felt my ship beneath to sink,
Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries,
And hardly for the storm and ruin shed
Death always takes the shape
of our bedroom.
Stripping an almond tree in flower
The wise apothecary's skill
IX
“My lips do need thy breath,
Sad, and sweet, and wise,
Here a child reposes,
In darkroom of your eye the moonly mind
somersaults to counterfeit eclipse;
In the middle of a silence deserted as a street before a crime
not even breathing so that nothing will disturb my dying
We who have walked deserted stubble fields on a December evening,
Who have seen over the field's edge a soft river woman scattering
Samomorilec pred zrcalom. Splasena dusa.
Should I long that dark were fair? Say, O song.
Lacks my love aught that I should long?
ONCE from the world of living men
I passed, by a strange fancy led,
Girded by wastes of sounding foam, Slumbers unseen the fruitful isle;
You ask my wish--the boon I crave,
O grant it--leave me what I have:
ASK not my pardon! For if one hath need
Once to forgive the god that he hath raised,
Love, that art Charity,
Why has Thou hurt me so?
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