Said I would lavish a burning hour full
On any grissette.
A parry!—and powerful!
But—"You are mine, and blood is inflammable,
Flaunty Lissette!"
My rage was undammable....
Could a stilletto's one prick be prettier?
Look at the gaping.
No?—then you're her pitier!
Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner.
Loose me the strapping—
I'll lay one more kiss on her.
[TEARLESS]
Do women weep when men have died?
It cannot be!
For I have sat here by his side,
Breathing dear names against his face,
That he must list to were his place
Over God's throne—
Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.
No! but to lids, that gaze stone-wide,
Grief seems in vain.
Do women weep?—I was his bride—
They brought him to me cold and pale—
Upon his lids I saw the trail
Of deathly pain.
They said, "Her tears will fall like Autumn rain."
I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,
Dropped on his lips,
Might burn him back to life and years
Of yearning love, would any rise
To flood the anguish from my eyes—
And I'm his bride!
Ah me, do women weep when men have died?