Death in December.
I.
WITH roses will I strew our bed
Where all thine own thou madest me;
With rose-wreaths I entwine thy head
So dear, so dead.
This is Love’s inmost place, where we
Learned and with madness learned again
And knew Love’s passionate agony
That wasteth me.
Now is thy room and mine Death’s room,
And this our bed (O burning kiss!)
Is made Death’s icy bed. The tomb
Shrouds it in gloom.
II.
The snow beats up about the pane
Where once we watched the August night,
And wild mad winds drive on amain
Across the plain.
III.
Alone!... Alone? Beneath my heart
Fainting I feel our new life beat,
Where our lives, joined, though dead thou art,
Share each a part.
On thy clear temples, bleeding-red
The rose-wreaths twine, the flowers die.
With roses do I deck our bed
Where thou liest dead.