  WHEN you lay dying fast, you said— And, weeping, were not comforted: “Look through this paper world! I see The lights of Heaven burn like gold The other side; and Souls are sold For these, yet only flesh, sold we!” And then you died and went to bliss.— I’m curious now to know if love Is really Heaven—where you rove.— Your kind of love ... or mine, ThaÏs? And is there still the clinging mud? I think it drowned your soul like wine. And do the stars like street-lamps shine, Gilding the gutters where you stood, And lighting up your small face where Thin powder, like a trail of dust, Shows the mortality of lust ... Still black as hissing rain, your hair? Your body had become your soul.... ThaÏs,—do spirits crumble whole? |
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