Death and the Maiden

 BARCAROLE ON THE STYX


Fair youth with the rose at your lips, 
A riddle is hid in your eyes; 
Discard conversational quips, 
Give over elaborate disguise.


The rose's funeral breath 
Confirms by intuitive fears; 
To prove your devotion, Sir Death, 
Avaunt for a dozen of years.


But do not forget to array 
Your terror in juvenile charms; 
I shall deeply regret my delay 
If I sleep in a skeleton's arms.

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