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So—till he seize me with a shout,
Tear me, and sear me with his breath;
Yea, till he tread my heart quite out,
And give me Death!
And if not Death!—
O all the night I shall be free
To steep me and to stifle me
In dew, and cool dew-dropping hair,
In every shadowy haunt and lair
Where most forgetfulness may be;
And, all on flame, my soul shall flare
Into the chillest of the dark,
And there be quenchéd, spark by spark.
To the last faintest spark of me.
I will be wasted as a spoil
On all things of the woods and winds;
Earned with no eagerness or toil
I will be for the first who finds—
