  1 Hold up thy head and crush Thy heart's despair; From thy wan temples brush The tear-wet hair. 2 Look on me thus as I Gaze upon thee; Nor question how nor why Such things can be. 3 Thou thought'st it love!—poor fool! That which was lust! Which made thee, beautiful, Vile as the dust! 4 Thy flesh I craved, thy face!— Love shrinks at this— Now on thy lips to place One farewell kiss!— 5 Weep not, but die!—'tis given— And so—farewell!— Die!—that which makes death heaven, Makes life a hell. |
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