 | Lays of France |  |
But he who, living, had possest
Her peerless body—who, till then,
Rapt in sweet thought, had never known
How death grew chill and cold earth prest
And walled him in, nor felt the stone
Lie heavy between him and men,—
But he who, giving his soul's best
Of heaven and God's eternal good,
Had won that woman to be his
And change not: in mere solitude
Of death he woke, without a kiss,
And knew that fate was false;—the hiss
Of a fell serpent seemed to bring
The words that woke him to his ear,
Bitter with endless echoing,
And one long agony stretched clear
Out to his soul's eternity.
Then, in the hollow of the tomb,
Where his speech thundered into doom,
He answered her:
Her peerless body—who, till then,
Rapt in sweet thought, had never known
How death grew chill and cold earth prest
And walled him in, nor felt the stone
Lie heavy between him and men,—
But he who, giving his soul's best
Of heaven and God's eternal good,
Had won that woman to be his
And change not: in mere solitude
Of death he woke, without a kiss,
And knew that fate was false;—the hiss
Of a fell serpent seemed to bring
The words that woke him to his ear,
121
And one long agony stretched clear
Out to his soul's eternity.
Then, in the hollow of the tomb,
Where his speech thundered into doom,
He answered her:
| Lays of France | |