  Death, pacing between a ghastly Moon Dying low down on the western Hills And the Star, bright usher of the Morn, The clear Dawn cryophor, Trod frosty footprints in the dew Upon a ridge; and beholding there A lovely Lady lain below His tingling Arrow sped— A Barb with a burning icicle tip’d, Torn from the frore beard of the Northern Star That stares on the shuddering pyramids Of crumbling Arctic ice. With his Arrow he smote her and cried, ‘Come not here! Not here will I bear thee. This is My world— The world of Death where Beauty dies, And I, I Death am god.’ She sobbing arose, and sobbing sank; And would have perish’d, but Love that way Fell like a flame, and supported her And warm’d her dying hands; And said to him, ‘Fool, the touch of thy barb Is poison that I can poison with Love; For as thou art Death unto all the world, Even so am I Death to thee.’ |
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