  LOVE with the deep eyes and soft hair, Love with the lily throat and hands, Is done to death, and free as air Am I of all my King’s commands. How shall I celebrate my joy? Or dance with feet that once were fleet In his adorable employ? Or laugh with lips that felt his sweet? How can I at his lifeless face Aim any sharp or bitter jest, Since roguish destiny did place That tender target in my breast? Nay, let me be sincere and strong; I cannot rid me of my chains, I cannot to myself belong, My King is dead—his soul still reigns. |
|
