  I care not what they say who hold We should speak but of life and joy; I have met death in one I love, Death lusting to destroy. And I have fought him vein by vein, Loosened his cold and creeping clutch, Driven him from her—twice and thrice— With might too much. Yet with too little! for I know That she at last will lie there still. Then all my fire of love shall fail To thaw that chill; For it will freeze light from her eyes, Pulse from her breast and from her soul Me, whom no opiate of peace Can e'er console. None: ... till I follow her, in time, And find her, though all Dust deny! With that to be I'll front the day, And fronting die. |
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