Below, where sight and sound are set no more,
But only the intolerable weight
Of its own gloomy selfhood. This am I:
This passion, lion-mouthed and adder-eyed.
A mass compressed, a glowing central core,
Like molten metal in the crucible!
Death’s secret is some sweetness ultimate,
Sweeter than poison. Ah! My very words,
Chance phrases, ravel out the tale for me—
Sweetness and death—poison and love. Consider