Touch nevermore these hands, for my torn heart
Is desperate, and given not to words.
Quite humble have I been, and duly spake
My lips as you once tutored them to speak.
But now this empty husk from which you drained
Life’s darkest wine shall die in its own way,
And whither now it will this thing you hurt
Shall steal away, for all its broken wings.
And now, as waters sigh and whisper through
Some hollow-throated urn, so peace this day