Thou Death! To me no subtle thing
But of common visage, known,
Unto my days so well betrothed!
Yet in its clutches not Mercy's scythe
But cursed quill
Which no surcease permits-
And granting not that blessed peace
Does letless rage and torment, sting and prod
'Til e'en poor Tantalus would hold his lot
And not mine, for it, dare barter;
For Hades very countenance more fair a thing beheld
Than promised Dawns deferred,
Each alighting hope but a moment's sigh
By Hell's cruel breath consumed
'Til naught but cinders adorns my path
And Love, sweet corpse, its darksong warbles...