I weep those dead lips, white and dry, On which no kisses lie, Those eyes deserted of desire, And love’s soft fire. I weep the folded feet and hands, Held fast in linen bands; Still heart, cold breasts,—for them my dole: God hath the soul.
I weep those dead lips, white and dry, On which no kisses lie, Those eyes deserted of desire, And love’s soft fire. I weep the folded feet and hands, Held fast in linen bands; Still heart, cold breasts,—for them my dole: God hath the soul.
Green grew the reeds and pale they were, And all the sunless grass was gray; The sluggish coils of marsh-water Dripped thickly over root and stone; In the deep woods there was no day, No day within them, shine or sun,— Only the night alway. And evermore the cypresses Against the cold sky rocked...
