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Suttee

by
 LAMP of my life, the lips of Death 
Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath; 
Naught shall revive thy vanished spark .
.
.
Love, must I dwell in the living dark? Tree of my life, Death's cruel foot Hath crushed thee down to thy hidden root; Nought shall restore thy glory fled .
.
.
Shall the blossom live when the tree is dead? Life of my life, Death's bitter sword Hath severed us like a broken word, Rent us in twain who are but one .
.
Shall the flesh survive when the soul is gone?

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