 | Song in September |  |
133
THE LOVER TO HIS DEAD MISTRESS
Night after night, Eurydice, I tremble at thy homing
To pillows long deserted, with lips and hands forbidden:
I cannot bear the agonies that scorch me at thy coming
With so little beauty showing, with so much of beauty hidden!
To pillows long deserted, with lips and hands forbidden:
I cannot bear the agonies that scorch me at thy coming
With so little beauty showing, with so much of beauty hidden!
To hear thee breathing by the bed, to feel thy fingers stroking
The nest thy body sweetened once, is peril near to madness.
Sleep in thy grave, Eurydice, by memories invoking,
Nor work so bitterly to give a double-edge to sadness.
The nest thy body sweetened once, is peril near to madness.
Sleep in thy grave, Eurydice, by memories invoking,
Nor work so bitterly to give a double-edge to sadness.
134
Have I not bought the sullen ground that waits for me above thee,
In promise of the summer when they bring to thee my starkness?
Keep in thy grave, Eurydice, remembering how I love thee,
Nor break me on the wheel at night by breathing in the darkness!
In promise of the summer when they bring to thee my starkness?
Keep in thy grave, Eurydice, remembering how I love thee,
Nor break me on the wheel at night by breathing in the darkness!
| Song in September | |