 | The Triumph of Love |  |
XLVI
Forlorn of hope, shall I make Death my friendAnd beg a draught of his benumbing wine,
That as its slumber-breathing fumes ascend,
I may forget that love was ever mine?
Shall I chide Death that he delays to come,
Delays to heal the death-wound of my soul?—
Nay, but he heard me, though my prayer was dumb,
And came in love's disguise and made me whole:—
Long since he came, and with his hand of ice
Touched into nothingness love's mortal part,
Leaving behind, when I had paid his price,
The love that crowns with life the lover's heart.
O kindly Death, since thou hast claimed thine own,
I live by love, I live for love alone.
| The Triumph of Love | |