  The helot got him a hempen cord, A slave of love was he, “She made me dance to her circumstance— In the air one dances free!” She sits on a throne of ivory Serene in her silver gown, “Ah, woe,” he cried, “but the world is wide, But ’tis straight where I lie down. “She mocked, she scorned, and she hated me, She shall pity me not,” he said; “Too late for the nether way of hate, I may flout her when I’m dead.” Out in the dark of the moonless sky, The rope was round his neck, “’Tis the torque of gold from her throat so cold, Why should I rue or reck?” Tighter tangled the hempen cord; “’Tis her fingers hot with fire, In a tempest of fear she draws me near,— Now dying is not so dire!” Black, more black grew the empty void, “And I but a broken reed, For there’s only her face in this grisly place”— But his love stood there indeed! Close to her heart she took his head, And she kissed him back to breath, “You are mine by right of that line of white, You are mine—by Life and Death!” |
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