 | Love-Songs |  |
27
IV. THE DEAD MEN'S SONG.
I
Praise we deathWho stays our breath
And sends us rest from pain;
Slay we life
With edge of knife
And hurl him back again.
II
Praise the tomb,The utmost gloom
Of garments graveyards hold;
The dead men's lyre,
And flames of fire
From mouth of skeleton rolled.
III
Praise the danceOf feet that prance
Upon the ball-room floor
Deep down below,
Where worm-buds grow,
And light's alive no more.
28
IV
Slay we love,The feeble dove,
And smear her wings with clay!
Here below
We dead men know
Her not—the beetles play.
V
And mosses damp,And clink of clamp,
And spiders' webs entwined
In hair of ours,
In woven bowers,
Are dear to dead men's mind.
V
Half-eaten eyesWith no surprise
We see: that sort of thing
Is common here;
Whole eyes are dear;
This is the song we sing.
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