CHORIAMBICS.
143
Lo, the roses of death, grey as the dust, chiller of leaf
than snow!
Why let fall from thy hand love's that were thine, roses
that loved thee so?
Large red lilies of love, sceptral and tall, lovely for eyes
to see;
Thornless blossom of love, full of the sun, fruits that were
reared for thee.
Now death's poppies alone circle thy hair, girdle thy
breasts as white;
Bloodless blossoms of death, leaves that have sprung
never against the light.
Nay then, sleep if thou wilt; love is content; what
should he do to weep?
Sweet was love to thee once; now in thine eyes sweeter
than love is sleep.
